Matt’s steps became slower and he stumbled once or twice as he trudged up the steep, winding stairway of the ruined castle.

My 86 years are beginning to slow me down, he thought as he sank onto the low granite wall, mopping streams of perspiration from his forehead with a large white handkerchief.

“Just relax,” he whispered aloud to no one, for the rest of the tour had rushed on ahead, eager to see the ruins before rushing back to dinner at Hotel Sanger Blondel. But his heart continued to beat wildly and his chest felt as if it was being squeezed in a vice. Matt was determined to participate in everything at his own speed. The sun, now low on the horizon, silhouetted the castle walls above. The linden trees rustled their leaves in the warm evening breeze, and the Danube, not blue but muddy brown, curved languidly around the small village of Durnstein just below.

The scene calmed him as he sat and his thoughts drifted back to Margaret. She would have loved this postcard-perfect view. He had bought their tour tickets almost a year ago, before Margaret had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Matt ached with loneliness for Margaret. His son had persuaded him to go on the tour thinking it would help him overcome his grief. Sometimes Matt forgot his loss but a this moment, he felt Margaret’s absence more than ever, and he caught himself talking to her out loud.

At “The Marriage of Figaro” the night before, he had felt her presence, her delight in the beautiful arias of Mozart.With tears of joy he turned to the woman sitting beside him only to realize she was a stranger, not his Margaret. The evening ended in despair.

Today had been better. The tour group had taken the bus to the magnificent cathedral at Melk and boarded a river boat to travel upstream on the Danube to Durnstein. They had listened to the hotel-keeper tell the story of King Richard and Blondel; Matt had taught European History for over thirty years and already knew the legend. In fact, it was the legend that had brought him here. He was determined to climb to the ruined castle, to stand on the stone floor and gaze at the same view Richard had seen so long ago.

Matt stood and, feeling a bit better, continued his slow walk up the path just as the tour group came scurrying past. “Come on down, Matt,” someone called to him. “The view is just as good from here. Don’t bother to go further. You’ll miss dinner.”

The tour leader echoed this sentiment but Matt insisted he was fine, just a bit slow, and that he would climb the remaining stairs to the top. “Don’t wait for me to have dinner,” he said, as he turned and continued up the ruins.

When he reached the top, Matt entered the castle. The walls were still intact and he could indeed stand on the very floor and look out the very window where Richard had been imprisoned after his capture by the Austrians. Richard I, nick-named the Lionhearted,  was on his way back to England after fighting in the Crusades. No one knew where he was but legend had it that Blondel, a young troubadour, had wandered from fortress to fortress all over Europe, looking for his king. One day, leaning exhausted against the steep sides of Durnstein castle, he sang the first verse of a song known only by King Richard and himself:

Oh king, do you hear me, your Blondel?
Or recognize the strains of my zither
Gently do I sound its strings
As I wander alongside this tower.

Suddenly he heard the voice of his beloved sovereign, replying with the second verse of the song:

Blondel! Oh Blondel
Can it really be you?
climb yon rock wall
that the moonlight might reveal
the success of your bold venture

Filled with joy, Blondel hurried back to England with happy news that King Richard had been found. The demanded ransom had been sent and King Richard the Lionheart returned home.

Matt, now seated outside on a broken piece of the castle roof, closed his eyes and sang the first verse very softly. He thought he could hear Margaret singing there beside him, or maybe it was Blondel? He tried to sing the second verse but was overcome by intense pain in his chest, arms and neck. His jaws refused to open. He felt himself drawn into a place lit by the overwhelming radiance of the setting sun and surrounded by glorious music. Margaret seemed very close, her arms outstretched, and he raised his hands as if to grasp her fingers.