Sherlock Holmes and Friedrich Nietzsche in the Swan King Affair: A Philosophical Mystery Thriller

By Andrew Glenn

The King is dead!
June 13, of 1886, King Ludwig of Bavaria, otherwise known as Crazy Ludwig, the builder of many beautiful castles, friend of Wagner and patron of the arts, is found dead in Lake Starnberg along with his doctor. Their deaths are a mystery. A professor in Marburg, Germany is also found dead the same the same day. They all were friends of Friedrich Nietzsche, the great German philosopher. Nietzsche, now in retirement, goes to Sherlock Holmes to solve the case.
Holmes accepts and the three proceed to Germany picking up along the way Mark Twain, who has finished a tour, the beautiful feminist Lou Salome, and the mysterious Dr. Liu. Much merriment ensues as ideas clash between six brilliant minds. Holmes solves the murders but finds himself in a morass of difficulties. The plot twists about when Holmes and his crew are summoned to the bedside of a wise man who tells him that only he can solve a 400 year old prophecy. The ever logical Holmes doubts the prophecy but he is told that if he does not act on it, Europe could be plunged into war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664155220

Andrew Glenn

Andrew Glenn is a true Renaissance man, having made significant contributions to the arts in theater, literature, and music in his forty-five-year career. He is mentioned in Annette Lust’s From the Greek Mimes to Marcel Marceau and Beyond, and his poetry has appeared in the Pulitzer Prize–winning Winning Hearts and Minds: An Anthology of Vietnam War Era Poets. In the ’80s, after a career in modern dance, he established the Mime Theater of Andrew Glenn in Seattle, Washington. His creations had appeared in the Moscow Festival for the Arts in 1990, and he has appeared on TV in California and Washington and performed in the choreography of Martha Graham. Returning to singing, his first love, he established House of Song, giving over six hundred recitals. In 2001, he sang German lieder for the German cultural attaché to the UN in Philadelphia. Gardens of the King is his second novel. He lives half the year in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and the other half in Marburg, Germany, where he is an active translator of German poetry.

Book preview

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND

FRIEDRICH IETZSCHE IN

THE SWAN KING AFFAIR

A Philosophical Mystery Thriller

ANDREW GLENN

Copyright © 2021 by Andrew Glenn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/13/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Postscript

Afterword

A Brief Glossary of Philosophical Terms

In Memory of Barbara Amara Stuart and Martin Dillon

"Nichts ist wahr, alles ist erlaubt.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

—Friedrich Nietzsche

"History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of

the past, trying to re-construct its scenes, to revive its echoes

and rekindle with pale gleams the passions of former days."

—Winston Churchill

"All are lunatics, but he who can analyze

his delusion is a philosopher."

—Ambrose Bierce

Fact

On June 13, 1886 King Ludwig II of Bavaria, better known as Crazy Ludwig, the eccentric builder of the Bavarian castle Neuschwanstein, drowned in Lake Starnberg along with his doctor. The deaths were attributed to accident, but there were those who thought otherwise.

Fact

On October 15, 1844, Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche was born in Germany.

Fact

On April 1, 1889, Adolph Hitler was born in Austria.

Chapter 1

May 28, 1886

Neuschwanstein Castle, the Kingdom of Bavaria

Germany was a land of great castles and Neuschwanstein was the greatest of them all. And tonight it had its grand opening. It would be a grand gala affair the likes of which had never been seen before in Bavaria. Carriages wound their way up to its entrance on the narrow one-mile road and jockeyed for position along a retaining wall. Even a newfangled motor carriage could be seen banging and puffing its way up from the town of Fuessen pursued by barking dogs and jubilant youngsters. Children danced merrily at the entrance plaza and one almost expected to see the Pied Piper of Hamelin leading them into the castle. It was a sumptuous affair celebrating the completion of King Ludwig II’s masterpiece, Castle Neuschwanstein, translated as New Swan Rock.

High in the crisp mountain air of the Algau on the Austrian border near the stars the castle glowed with a million gas lights and candles that night, its warm windows beamed down into the valley like the benevolent eyes of some otherworldly fairy-tale presence. Chinese fireworks shot upward from the parapets and lit up the sky for miles around. The brilliant fusillade created ecstatic blossoms of energy to the delight of everyone, especially the children. They were called ‘buzzbombs’ and they spun shrilly and never seem to stop soaring until, with a resounding boom, they showered them with a kaleidoscope of colored sparks four hundred feet above their heads.

Neuschwanstein, built in a Romantic eclectic style, took seventeen years to build starting in 1869, and cost 6,200,000 marks. It had two hundred rooms and stood two-hundred and thiorteen feet at its highest turret. The only things missing were the trumpeter swans. They were on the ponds at Lindau, another creation of his. With neuschwanstein’s sisteen crenelated turrets the alabaster-white castle made out of swan stone dominated the valley and seemed almost locked in the embrace of fir trees and the mountain ridge behind it. That night three separate orchestras played Lehar, Wagner, and of course Johann Strauss for the enjoyment of the dancers in the ballroom. On the first floor, Wagner’s aria, Morgendlich Leuchtend im Rosigen Schein, sung by Walter could be heard as people ate in the dining room at a table forty feet long. Fourteen butlers and servers were in attendance wearing lederhosen and long white silk stockings with tri-corner black felt hats.

Johann Strauss music played in the Throne Hall on the second floor where 200 couples whirled and waltzed, drank too much champagne or Kaiserstuhl wine and ate endless plates of Russian caviar. The first floor had a ceiling forty-three feet high, and on the fourth floor, strains of the romantic opera composer Lehar wafted out of the windows. The intermixing of several styles of music made an odd impression as visitors approaching. Depending on what side of the castle you were standing on, you might hear dance music, or you could hear classic opera. Neuschwanstein, grandiose in appearance and unpronounceable in name, was bigger than life; it was the delight of everyone who saw it or entered, who possessed the joie de vivre and appreciative heart of a child. If one were a critic of architecture or King Ludwig’s extravagant lifestyle, one still could not help but be impressed—if he or she were lucky enough to be invited to King Ludwig’s extravaganzas at all. You had to be part of the nobility, you see. And they came—the Senfts, Pilachs, Gravenreuths, and von Krotendorfs. They came in military regalia and sweeping gowns of taffeta, silk, and diamond tiaras. King Ludwig and his friend Prof. Karl Schwenck stood by the champagne table surveying the crowd.

An extraordinary party, Ludwig, all the lords and ladies are here. And this room . . . fabulous, beautiful beyond words, Prof. Karl Schwenck said as the two men surveyed the ladies and gentlemen swaying arm in arm to Richard Strauss on the dance floor of the throne room. Again, that naysayer, who should he be lucky enough to be invited, would have to admit that the throne room was a masterpiece.

This room is like the foyer of the Paris Opera House—in miniature, Ludwig.

Thank you, my friend, . . . only the foyer? Ludwig said slapping him on the back. It is good to see Karl again, he thought.

They both laughed at the jest.

Yes, almost everyone I wanted to come has arrived, Gustav Klimt, the painter from Schwabing is over there, Ludwig said, pointing, and my old friend Friedrich Nietzsche is over there talking to . . . Ludwig put his hand to his mouth as if to disguise something. It looks like Nietzsche is already drunk, Schwenck thought to himself.

He is talking to your lovely lady, Liselotte von Motta, Karl Schwenck said, helping him along. The king waved at her and Nietzsche who looked out of place with his walrus mustache and hangdog look. This night though the great philosopher was beaming and held her hand.

You must be jealous, Ludwig.

No, Karl, he said smiling magnanimously, Liselotte is Liselotte. She must be free as a bird. You know, like the Amorata Society. Karl winked. You dog, Karl thought to himself, that bunch of sybarites.

Yes, and Jacque Offenbach is stuffing himself at the canape table, Ludwig remarked with a smile.

Will he ever finish that opera he’s writing? Karl asked.

Who knows but, he will be conducting my Strauss orchestra tonight.

Bravo.

Liselotte floated by waltzing in the arms of an army colonel, ignoring them.

She is trying to catch your eye, Ludwig, Karl said, pointing. Liselotte removed her scarf and waved it at him, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

I’m exhausted, Karl, the king said, leaning onto his friend. A whole week preparing caterers, musicians, and catering.

You should be tired, he said, putting his arm around his left shoulder for support. This party must have been a logistical nightmare.

They both watched the tall and supple Liselotte dance by herself in the middle of the hall waving her scarf at her male admirers. She wore a scarlet ankle-length gown of taffeta and her waist was tightly bound with a gold silk chord. A scarlet gown offset her blonde hair that fell freely around her shoulders. She was barefoot and held her slippers in her right hand. A bold thing to do, Karl Schwenck thought and removed a piece of paper and unfolded it. Maybe he will like this poem I brought.

So when are you going to marry Lisa, Ludwig? Everyone knows you two are like one, Karl teased, crossing his fingers. She looked over that instant as if by telepathy.

Not so fast, Karl. I am a bachelor, a forty-eight-year-old one at that. I still like the freedom I have. Shrieks of delight came from the children who slid down the marble banister using it as a slide and rolling on the thick carpet.

You love children, Ludwig. They are always underfoot waiting for the bonbons you give them. It is obvious they give you great happiness. You could have a hundred children of your own . . . and have all the privacy you wanted. She comes from a noble family, has the love of education and children that you have. You both look like a fit.

Or I could have a harem with a hundred consorts, the king replied, giving him an exaggerated leer. They both laughed.

Maybe you can get her to pay for the castle as well. Didn’t you borrow a lot?

Not really, Bismarck gave me a gift, he said distractedly as he watched Liselotte.

Her father is the richest man in Bavaria.

Next to me, Karl! he said, slapping him on the back again.

Karl reached into the pocket of his tuxedo and removed a sheet of paper that he handed to Ludwig.

This is a poem by Andrew Marvell, the English cavalier and nobleman. It reminds me of you. It is called ‘To His Coy Mistress.’

Aha, Karl, I know the poem. He laments the lady’s coyness. The waiting is killing him.

The king grew pensive for a moment, weighing his words.

Marrying would be good for you in your position. Be realistic, Ludy, people are talking.

Up to your old tricks again. You’re always trying to get me married.

Two days hence

Ludwig and Liselotte rode two hours at a steady trot in their red boxlike brougham carriage until reaching their destination at Murnau, a picturesque village south of Munich. The king had been attending a meeting of the cabinet in Tutzing to the north. They pulled up at the top of the hill above Staffel Lake. He stepped out first, offering her a hand. She placed her tiny hand in his, stepping daintily down, placing her winged-tipped Bone and Wine leather shoe tentatively on the ground. She wore a simple bloomer dress with a high waist and bundled her long blonde hair beneath a brown chignon hat with a slender brim. Ludwig wore a simple black suit cut close to the body—which was the fashion—and on his head a Meyser hat, giving him a sporting appearance. He wore a long-haired wig in the style of Franz Liszt. Such was his disguise. With his profile hidden, he knew he would be hard to recognize. Anyone who saw them would take them as common gentry. If they were recognized and approached, it was his custom to simply deny his true identity. He left their driver in the carriage with large black wheels and told him they would be an hour. They walked down the slope along the trail until they came into the open and saw the lake resting in a green meadow that led to the snow-capped Alps several miles in the distance. It was an inspiring view fit for lovers. They sat on a nearby bench made of split ash logs.

Ludwig, you should have an escort. Someone could waylay you, she said, taking his right hand.

Nonsense, my dear, an escort draws attention.

She stood and went to the edge of the beach and knelt to pick an edelweiss flower. Peculiar, she thought, that the little white flower would be growing on the edge of the sand. It usually grew in mountain valleys. He watched and then she did that thing that drove him crazy; she looked over her shoulder and held his gaze seductively—if only for a second. I love this woman, he thought to himself. She has it all—money, looks, grace, charm, and common sense. I loved her from the moment I met her. I love her even for the less-than-desirable qualities, her vanity, her snobbishness, her conceit, and worst of all, her malice. I guess if you love a woman you have to accept her foibles, he thought to himself. But there was something bitter, askew, a coldness. She is not exploiting me. She is independent and wealthy so it isn’t money. She does not need my money or the parties. But she still comes back to me. Perhaps Karl is right. A man like me with the power I have is irresistible to most young women. She must be wary of me. All that bores me really. There is something about Lisa that I cannot have, and that is intriguing.

She returned next to him and placed a single edelweiss flower in his hand. He kissed her without a word.

A few people sat on blankets that Saturday and they were out of earshot. Ludwig removed her hat and caressed her tresses as they tumbled about her shoulders. She pushed his hand away and turned her gaze toward the woods.

I have trouble trusting you, Ludwig. I’ve seen you with Margareta and Katerina, she said, looking straight ahead without emotion.

I don’t have feelings for them, and I never really cared for them, Lisa.

So why should you care for me? He is so naïve, she thought to herself. I can see right through him. He lives in a child’s castle in his heart and has no idea what real life is about. He has never experienced the kind of pain I have had to bear.

You must understand I am a king and women are very interested in me. They come around. I am used to it. It doesn’t mean anything.

I’ve seen you chummy with men, too, she said with a sly intonation to her voice.

It’s not what you think. I like men in a manly way, not in the way you are thinking, Lisa. I am honoring you by bringing you here and choosing you of all the women I have known. I want you to be my queen, he said. Liselotte stood and walked thirty feet to the lake again. She looked over her shoulder again at him and smiled.

And that annoying conviction of entitlement, oh God, not marriage. I will become like a canary in a gilded cage, she thought to herself. I do like him though. But will he grow up? Never. He is too good he doesn’t see what’s coming. He is too trusting, soft on the inside. Oh, I am so torn. I can’t get involved even though I AM involved. I shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. Lutz warned me not to have any attachments. As far as a husband is concerned, I don’t think Ludwig will be strong when he has to be. I must confront him now. I can’t have a husband anyway. I like women better. Oh, what am I going to do? She returned to him and took his hands in hers and gave him her most thoughtful and endearing smile.

Ludy, there is talk that all this castle building is bankrupting Bavaria. You must stop this spending . . . I am afraid for you. Ludwig said nothing and turned to stare out at the lake.

I am not about to change. Besides, it’s not about money, Lisa.

What is it about then? she said, squeezing his hands. All power is about money one way or the other.

It concerns an independence movement on the part of the kingdom of Bavaria, and they know I am against it. It’s about Bismarck and me, the greater confederation, and they don’t like it. Bismarck drives a wedge through things. The cabinet doesn’t like what I symbolize.

I know that . . . I know about your educational reforms, too, your dedication to high art. It cannot be just confederation politics. There is something else going on. What is it?

I don’t know, I just sense something, Lisa. Perhaps they dislike the fact that I can’t be controlled the way they controlled my father. She withdrew her hands. He understands. He is no child, she thought.

Liselotte began fingering the ring on her right index finger. Part of her loved him, part of her hated everything he represented. Part of her loved Bertold Lutz more. She had a deep connection with him; he was the father she never had. He had suffered what she had suffered. and they held common values because of this. It was Bertold who would spring the revolution, she thought to herself.

That is a very pretty red ruby you have there, Lisa. It looks good on you, he said, touching it with his finger.

Thank you, she whispered, being roused from her thoughts.

Little does he know that all I have to do is bite it and suck in the poison—and French kiss him. Then it is all over, she thought to herself and shivered.

Maybe it is time to go . . . you are shivering from the cold, Lisa.

I was wrong. He knows too much, she thought. She drew her shawl around her shoulders and shivered.

Yes, Ludy, let us go. It is unbearably chilly.

Prof. Schwenck and King Ludwig enjoyed a cup of tea in the Wagner Room. They sat at a small table in the center of the recently finished ballroom. The outer structure had been built in three years, but the interior took another fifteen years. In short, it was a work in progress.

And in each corner, I shall have statues of each character in the opera Tannhauser, the Swan King said, gesturing in a circle.

WonderfuI, a great touch. Don’t you think Der Meistersinger is Wagner’s best work?

Without a doubt, the aria for Walter is his most beautiful melody.

I agree, Karl Schwenck said. The king began to softly whistle Morgendlich leuchtend in Rosigen Schein. He stopped abruptly and turned serious.

I’m rustling some feathers and I may not be able to afford the statues . . . we’ll see, the king said.

Bertold Lutz, the undersecretary, doesn’t like you very much, Karl. The other day I was approached by some flunky of his named Constantine. He had that slimy quality that agents have.

Yes, that brute is in the secret police. I’ve seen him. He has that flatness in the eyes like the eyes of an undertaker . . . a hollowness . . . a nonentity . . . as if he slid under the door rather than opened it, . . . not someone you feel could be a physical threat, right? Karl said. He leaned forward and looked around the room for an instant afraid that he might be overheard. He lowered his voice.

So, what did he say?

He said there were mutterings of me getting sacked and the co-regent being put in my place. My brother replacing me? He’s unfit for office. This man said he was passing this warning on as a friend, sincerely interested in his success. Ludwig took his friend’s arm in his powerful grip.

Do you think Lutz knows that we know?

That’s what I’m afraid of, Ludy. Ludwig suddenly squinted his eyes and bit his lip. I’ve never seen him afraid before, Karl thought.

That bastard had the nerve to threaten me. I should stop him and his secret society while I can.

Perhaps it is a threat . . . go on.

I was present at the finance meeting before Constantine approached me. They all seemed to agree Neuschwanstein would be a good cultural asset to Bavaria and Brunweld. The chairman said the payments for this castle would continue. Lutz’s was the only dissenting vote. It went in my favor. Everything seemed fine . . .

So what is the problem, he is only an assistant undersecretary?

He corners me in the cloakroom after the meeting and tells me that this is the last payment I will get for the castle. Ludwig glanced around the empty hall again. That son of a bitch!

And?

I told him that the committee had made its decision, and he had nothing to say in the matter. He just stared at me wagging his head back and forth in a big no. I told him to drop it. He responded by saying I was bankrupting Bavaria and selling it out to Bismarck. I told him to keep his nose out of confederation monetary affairs. Then, I said that if he tried to undercut me, I would sack him. The king tightened his grip on his friend’s arm.

That may have not been the wisest move, Ludy.

I have to stop this, Karl.

"Ludy, did you know Lutz and Liselotte have been having an affair?

Oh Christ, she went over to his side! the king said, turning pale.

I suppose that is why Lutz felt emboldened to threaten you in the cloakroom, Karl said. She and Lutz are trying to get the upper hand.

No, not Lisalotte, not her, he said, clamping his head with his palms. They rose when they heard the clicking heels of the waiter on the waxed oak floors as he entered the hall.

I will see you out, Karl, the king said rising to his feet.

Goodbye, be careful, Karl said as he turned and left.

Liselotte and her best friend Margarete met the next day for tea at a coffeehouse in the resort town of Tutzing. The café was located near the end of a pier that jutted out into Lake Starnberg. It was a grand spot for the wealthy to admire their yachts and sailing craft. The beach extended to both sides of the pier and women in colorful bloomers and parasols could be seen strolling to the cries of seagulls. They sat across from each other drinking tea and eating kuchen.

Liselotte, do you remember the ball? You had such a good time dancing with every eligible bachelor in Neuschwanstein.

Everyone but Nietzsche, Liselotte said with a laugh.

You could have any man you want! she said, reaching across the table placing her hand on Liselotte’s.

Margarete is just a farm girl, but she is my best friend, if it is possible to trust anyone, Liselotte thought to herself. We come from such different backgrounds. She is such a kind person. It feels so good to have a friend like Margarete. She is so genuine. Men are so painful and treacherous . . . I wonder what she sees in me?

Thanks, Margarete.

But you didn’t dance with Friedrich Nietzsche the great philosopher when you had your chance! she said.

I saw him there talking to Karl Schwenck and Ludy, and he looked sickly and insecure. Here we have a famous man who writes about strength and power, and he looks like a dry goods salesman. Yet there was something about him. He looked half on fire with a beet-red face and a crazy crooked smile. He seems too weird.

I know, I didn’t feel attracted to him either, Margarete said. Liselotte couldn’t restrain her enthusiasm.

His philosophy is wonderful, Margarete, it is SWEEPING Europe, she said, pounding the tabletop and nearly spilling the tea. Proper ladies turned their heads to look.

Tell me! Margarete gushed with enthusiasm.

Well, in the first place, ‘God is dead, and this sets us free to create our own lives.’

That’s not good, Margarete said, fingering the tiny silver crucifix about her throat. I’ve been a good Catholic all my life.

Let me finish Margarete . . . it isn’t just about religion . . . there is more to it than that. He talks about all of us making a choice to be Ubermenschen or superior people. Are you familiar with Zarathustra, Margarete?

No . . . she said, raising her voice and attracting attention.

Life is for the strong, for the healthy, for the victorious!

You have to TAKE what you want, Margarete. You can’t be an apologist your whole life.

I know, Liselotte, I know, she said, pulling her head in like a turtle. I’m just a humble clerk. The proper ladies were now staring.

Nietzsche’s philosophy is a philosophy of power for all of us. That is what we are about in the Paragons.

Oh yes, I DO want to join, Margarete said, unctuously squeezing her hand and kissing her cheek.

But you scare me, Lizzy.

Marburg

300 miles to the north

Prof. Karl Schwenck stood on a footbridge over the Lahn River in Marburg, Germany, admiring the fairy-tale castle high above him. He took a deep satisfying draught of air and leaned over the guard rail looking into the shallow river. What a beautiful evening it is, he thought to himself, the ducks are eating watercress, finches are playing tag over the bubbling waters, students are enjoying themselves in their paddleboats, and the trumpeter swans swim in circles down by the youth hostel. It was a beautiful setting from any angle of contemplation; the dark-green Lahn River under a dark-blue sky meandered lazily through the valley, and at dusk, the lights of the three-story homes ringing the hill twinkled like Christmas tree ornaments poking through the mist. They clung to the surrounding hills like barnacles on the hull of a ship. The massive castle Marburgerschloss loomed above the town exerting its dominance. To his right, the imposing spire of Elizabeth’s cathedral thrust up from the valley into the warm May night. He always enjoyed stopping on this bridge on a sunny day and leaning out over the railing. It was narrow and townspeople had to squeeze past him to get through. He let his thoughts loose with the current. Life has been good this last year. The semester was ending.

Marburg was a college town in the state of Baden-Wurtemberg, and he had spent his entire career there as a professor of law and political science. Like many of his colleagues, he loved Marburg and felt no desire to leave. It was a special town where great scientists and artists changed the destiny of man. He felt proud to be living in the town famous for the Grimm brothers and Max Planck. Maybe it is time to find a wife and settle down, he thought. He was pleased with himself for having done his part in politics. His cartoon satirizing Bismarck just appeared in a prominent newspaper. He turned right toward the cathedral and strolled the botanical gardens, his favorite spot, and sat on a bench to watch the swans idle on the small pool and listen to the students play piano in the music building next to it. Maybe he would walk up the hill to the Rathaus and have a beer in that tavern where the Grimm brothers wrote their dark fairy tales.

It was late afternoon and he ducked into a doorway of the church to light his pipe. The cherry blend of the tobacco lifted his spirits. He felt the hairs on his neck stand up. The streets were empty, but a small man across the street hung in a doorway gazing steadily in his direction. His stomach dropped. Could he be one of Bismarck’s spies? Maybe I should not have sent that cartoon satirizing Bismarck, he thought. The man disappeared into a bistro on the corner. He felt relief. Just my imagination, he thought. Bismarck has guaranteed free speech so why be afraid? He removed his timepiece from his woolen vest and checked the time. As he snapped the brass cover shut, he was looking down at the small stranger, a man with a goatee and no taller than five feet who said, I hear you are a good chess player Prof. Schwenck. Would you like to play a game? He was at a loss for words considering the man’s directness.

Sorry if I startled you. My name is Mr. Dox, he said, extending his hand.

This is strange, sir, I have the feeling we have met before! he said shaking the man’s hands.

The Swan King rode his horse slowly at dusk through a meadow south of Castle Neuschwanstein. This is wonderful, the thought to himself, to get away from the intrigues of court, just my horse Tristan and me, the fresh valley air, the high soaring red-tailed hawks. I should take up falconry again, he thought to himself. Tristan was a white Percheron. They were a handsome sight—the dashing king, age forty, sat erect in the saddle, tall, strong, and athletic, wearing green calf-skin livery and white riding breeches, a green wool jaeger mantle and a hunting cap with bore’s bristle, and a jaunty red scarf about this neck. Tristan wore a silver bridle and a black saddle. He named his horse Tristan after a character in one of Wagner’s operas. The horse was one of his best confidants. He would even nicker or paw the ground whenever his master chose to share intimacies. Tristan slowed whenever his master was thinking and talking out loud to himself. The handsome king had much on his regal mind:

I refuse to give in to Lutz, he said to Tristan. He is being referred to as the Black Eagle. This Black Eagle is a tough customer, this I know! He will destroy everything I stand for! If I only knew his name. These reactionary hacks are infesting all levels of government. I can’t pin them down by name, but it is just a feeling of something passing through the government and the people, a kind of shock wave, a tremor, an earthquake that is shaking things up. But what is it, Tristan? It isn’t a rebellion of the peasants or the salt of the earth. It doesn’t come from below. I have never encountered this sense of malaise before. It is coming from somewhere in the heart of the government," he thought out loud.

The king fancied Tristan understood every word. They were now passing down an incline into a gulley shrouded with fir trees.

And, Tristan, what about Liselotte? Do you know the story of Isabella of France? Of course you don’t, you are a horse. Tristan nickered and bobbed his massive head.

Isabella was married to Edward II in 1308. She was the daughter of Longshanks, an evil English king. Longsahnks executed the great Scottish warrioor Wallace, called Braveheart. Well, Tristan, she got stuck in France and she felt betrayed by her cabinet, so she launched an invasion of her own country. Can you believe that Tristan? His horse snorted and bobbed his head again. I fear Liselotte could be treacherous and steal the crown. What do you think of that? Tristan stopped and his ears went back. He heard something. He lowered his head and nibbled on the grass by the trail. The king kept talking.

I feel that Liselotte and I have been enemies in a former life. It came to me in a dream. We were two pirates stealing from one another. She was my colleague in the dream. Do you believe in reincarnation, Tristan? Tristan lowered his large black head and began to nibble the grass. They turned to the right into a narrow glen shrouded by a canopy of trees. It was the king’s usual way home. They emerged on the valley floor and then rode up the mountain again to his castle on the opposing slope. They picked their way gingerly in the fog when a commotion broke out in the underbrush to their left. Tristan wheeled about, nearly throwing the king and whinnied violently as a mounted assailant on a small black horse with a face covering charged at the king with a sword. Tristan rose on his haunches, bringing his hooves down on the assailant’s head and killing him instantly. A second assailant stopped abruptly when he saw Ludwig extract his pistol from his belt. He wheeled and disappeared into the underbrush. The king decided not to pursue. He dismounted and examined the man, tearing off his mask. The king took his brass watch and put it over the man’s mouth. If he were breathing, the brass would cloud with his breath. The man was not breathing.

I don’t recognize him. He’s dead, Tristan. I think he is one of the Black Eagle’s men. I’m not going to report this. Tristan reared back and pawed the air as if the fight were still on. The king pulled on his bridle and rubbed his neck to help him relax. He pulled the bridle down hard a second time and Tristan stopped.

The next morning the king found five stalwart soldiers from the garrison at Fuessen standing over his bed.

How did you get in here? he shouted, jumping to his feet wearing only a nightshirt. You have no business being here. Get out of my castle!

Your Highness, I am sorry. You must dress and come with us. You are under arrest by order of the president of the senate, the captain said, unrolling a parchment he had under his arm.

Those bastards got the jump on me. They will soon take my power away from me. I must do something, he thought to himself as he frantically pulled on his pants. He grabbed the parchment and tore it down the middle, flinging it at the officer.

Leave immediately! the king demanded as he reached into the drawer of his nightstand to grab his pistol. But it was too late. Two men grabbed him and threw him on his bed handcuffing him.