John Gardner - Never send flowers

Now, they were looking at it, from a viewing area fenced off at the roadside with room for perhaps half a dozen cars. Together they leaned on the rails and took in the gorgeous view: the great river, its banks rising in irregular hills of stone and dark green fir trees.

`Aw heck,' Fredericka frowned. `I thought it would be all blue and gold like the one in Orlando." `Or the one in California." `Or even the one in Paris, France, now.

`Out of luck, Flick. I don't think Sleeping Beauty lives in this one." Directly below them the huge rectangle of grey stone seemed to merge with the rock against which it stood. Originally, Bond thought, Schloss Drache was probably built around a large courtyard, but obviously this, at some time, had been roofed in with reddish-grey slate which rose from the stone walkways behind battlements some ten feet thick.

The windows indicated that the massive place was at least four storeys high. Huge rooms, Bond figured. In each corner, close to the battlements, a circular turret rose, hugging the wall. Even from this distance it was clear that the turrets could easily accommodate two, if not three, fair-sized rooms.

At the far north-west side of the main structure a chunky square tower rose, like an enlarged version of many of the Norman towers seen on English churches. The top of the tower was lined with battlements, and from there a man would be able to see, literally, for miles, in all directions.

From the viewing area it was also obvious that the first sight, which made the entire Schloss look as though it were growing from the rock, was not correct. Now, you could see clearly that a thick wall sprouted from the rear, enclosing what seemed to be a large garden set among the rocks.

They could see stone walkways, and paths, sudden flashes of colour, bushes, even trees and fountains landscaped into this unlikely setting.

`I wonder if that's where she grows the roses?" Fredericka was resting her head against his shoulder and he turned to kiss her lightly on the forehead, smelling the fresh scent of her hair. For a second his mind flashed away to other places, other times, and the distinctive scents of other women. Twice he had sworn never to get too involved again, for it always led to disaster. Yet Fredericka seemed different from the others. She demanded nothing of him, and gave only affection. Never once had either of them sworn undying love, or demanded commitment to any sort of lasting relationship. He gave her a squeeze and slowly they walked back to the car.

A kilometer or so along the road they came to a notice in German, Italian, Spanish, French and English. It told them `Private Road. To Schloss Drache Only. Unauthorized Persons Must Keep Out." The slip road, a little further on, was also marked, and, taking it, they found themselves descending towards the river, down a narrow road which zigzagged perilously, then plunged into a dark thicket of pine trees, emerging alongside the river, then turning until the castle was lowering down on them. Its mountainous walls appeared to be leaning in against the sky that strange optical illusion made when clouds move as you look up at tall buildings.

`Makes you wonder how many people died when they put this place together." Fredericka made no attempt to disguise her awe.

`Certainly puts the building of the pyramids to shame." He eased the car forward. The road narrowed, leading to a small bridge which opened on to a stone turning circle directly in front of a pair of magnificent arched doors reaching up for something like thirty feet.

They were old, but their immense brass hinges and fitments gleamed as though they were polished regularly, and the doors themselves were also slick with some kind of wood preserver.

`I wonder how you attract attention. Is there a bell pull? Does Igor come shuffling out?" As Fredericka spoke, the doors began to move, swinging back to reveal an open courtyard.

`I think they already know we're here." Bond took the car slowly through the gates and into the courtyard that contained two Range Rovers, a black Merc and a sleek Lexus. He pulled in beside the Lexus, the gates closed behind them, and he took a quick look at the surroundings. Three sides of this parking entrance looked like a classic monastic cloister, complete with arches and gargoyles. The wall facing them was cloistered, but split in two where a set of long stone steps ran up to another vast door: this one looking vaguely Victorian, complete with stained-glass panels.

As they climbed out, a butler, complete in tail coat, and two younger men in green livery, appeared from the doorway and descended on the car, opening the boot and removing luggage with the expertise of a pair of thieves.

`Welcome to Schloss Drache, sir-madam." The butler was essentially English, from the tone of his voice to the way he moved and directed his underlings. The whole thing smacked of a time quite out of joint, like stepping back into a long dead era.

`If you will come this way, the master is waiting for you in the library." He ushered them into a hallway which smelled of polished wood, and Bond had an immediate impression of trophies in glass cases, stags' heads mounted high on the walls, and some oil paintings which looked suspiciously like genuine Turners.

The butler led them up a small flight of steps an along a corridor lined with pictures, but these were more recognizable. Again they were oil paintings but their subjects were well known to even the most casual observer for they were all portraits of great actors and actresses, not from a time long gone by, but from the immediate past, or the present. He spotted Orson Welles, Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, Monroe and a host of others, stage and screen mixed together in stunning colours.

The corridor led directly into a long, airy room lined with tier upon tier of books, all beautifully bound in leather, arranged by colour, so that there was an extraordinary illusion that you were looking at walls slashed with a rainbow. At the far end of the room, tall, leaded windows caught rays of light which seemed to fall in a prearranged pattern, catching Bond and Fredericka in cones of blinding brightness, so that, for a moment, they both blinked, Fredericka raising her hand to protect her eyes.

Then, almost as quickly as the light had caught them so it disappeared, leaving only a faint trace of real sunshine shafting in through the huge windows.

`Welcome, Mr Bond, and you also, Fraulein von Grusse." The voice was distinctive, with only a trace of David Dragonpol's true voice.

He stood directly behind a large globe which looked like a theatrical prop. One hand touched the globe, while the other rested at his waist. He was quite unrecognizable. Long, full dark hair fell to his shoulders, though in reality everyone knew that the man's hair was light, almost sandy in colour. The nose, usually so patrician, was now hooked and beaky, making him look like a predatory bird. Deepset eyes seemed to glow like burning coals, and his lips were twisted into a deformed curl, like an S lying on its side. He wore a black doublet and hose, the doublet slashed in gold and a huge medallion of a boar's head hung on a golden chain around his neck.

The hand on the globe was more claw than hand, the fingernails long, curling and obscene, while rings of gold, sparkling with jewels, seemed to weigh down the almost skeletal fingers.

`It's good to see you here." The voice was now completely unrecognizable. `If you have not realized it already, I am Richard of Gloucester.

Richard the Third of England." `Barking mad,' Bond whispered, but obviously not softly enough.

`Woof-woof!" said the apparition before it began to laugh, a hideous cackling sound that sent a chill down Bond's back and made Fredericka grasp for his hand, digging her nails into his flesh in fear.