The Castle of Kings by Oliver Pötzsch
Mathis watched the attack from his hiding place behind one of the wooden shields. Beside him, Ulrich Reichhart was calmly and carefully charging Fat Hedwig with granular gunpowder, tamping it down with a wooden rammer.
“Now we’ll see if this gun is really worth something,” he said. “And if so, Mathis, when all this is over, Erfenstein will make you an iron throne.” His voice was almost drowned out by the screaming and the sound of shots all around them.
“Or a cage, to put me in it and drown me,” Mathis muttered, hardly paying attention.
He was breathing heavily as he pushed a stone cannonball weighing almost thirty pounds through the mouth of the gun into the barrel, ramming it in with a staff wrapped in fabric. One last time, he checked for small cracks. Even a crack as fine as a hair could cause the bronze to explode.
At least if it does, I won’t get to hear whatever little rhyme Melchior von Tanningen composes about my inglorious end, he thought.
After making sure the ball was well down in the body of the gun, Mathis began adjusting the barrel’s angle with a large crank fitted to its side.
“Curse it, why is this taking so long?” complained Reichhart, looking at the peasants, who were now climbing ladders that they had put up against the castle gate. The young men were using sickles, short spears, and axes as weapons. “If we don’t hurry up, the castellan won’t be taking a single one of these young hotheads back to his parents,” the old master gunner went on gloomily. “At least not all in one piece.”
“I must get the angle just right,” Mathis replied curtly. “It won’t help our peasants if we’re firing cannonballs at the moon.”
As he turned the crank, Mathis looked through a slit between the shields and saw one of the peasants fall off a ladder, screaming, the shaft of a spear stuck in his chest. The only armor that Philipp von Erfenstein now wore was a helmet and a hauberk, so that he could be more mobile as he fought at the head of his troops. He was tackling three men at once with a short sword as they tried to get him down on the ground. Another of the peasants, arms flailing, fell directly in front of the castle gate and lay there, writhing in pain. Occasional shots could be heard now from the other side of the castle, but so far there was no sign of Scharfeneck’s landsknechts. Erfenstein did indeed seem to be confining the effort to the mock attack on the southern side.
Where it’s safest, thought Mathis. And our peasants have to bleed.
At last he had the angle of the barrel adjusted to his satisfaction. He got Ulrich Reichhart to hand him the burning stick with the fuse at the end of it, and through the touchhole he set fire to the charge, which began burning calmly and regularly. The crackling noise of it sounded to Mathis like a hissing snake. He signaled to Reichhart, and they both covered their ears.
The ensuing blast was so powerful that the two gunners fell to the ground. In spite of her weight, Fat Hedwig had rolled several feet back from where she was suspended, until she came up against an earthwork piled up for that purpose. Thick smoke rose before Mathis, cutting off his view. His eyes streamed, and there was a roaring and rushing in his ears. He knelt down and tried to see through the clouds of smoke as they slowly dissipated. The tall wooden shield that had been standing in front of the muzzle of the gun had disappeared entirely, leaving only a few charred splinters of wood scattered on the ground. A ghostly silence suddenly reigned over the charred terrain. It was as if all the attackers and all the defenders, too, were staring at the mighty monster that had made that infernal clamor. Only after some time could Mathis see the defensive wall of the castle through the smoke from the gunpowder.
A narrow, egg-shaped hole gaped open in the middle of that wall, about thirty feet up.
“Damn it, we aimed too high,” Ulrich Reichhart cursed. “Our men will never get through as far up as that.”
Mathis bit his lip. The moment of surprise had come and gone. And no one knew how much more often Fat Hedwig could be fired without exploding. Mathis put his hand on the barrel, and snatched it away in surprise. The bronze felt red-hot.
“We can’t venture on more than one or at the most two more balls!” he shouted through the din of battle that was swelling again now. “Then we’ll have to stop for a break, or Hedwig will explode all around us.”
“Stop for a break?” Reichhart looked at him blankly. “We’re much too close to the wall for that. They’ll pick us off like rabbits. And we can’t leave the big gun standing here unprotected for too long, or they’ll smash our prime artillery piece.”
Mathis ducked as the ball of an arquebus whistled over their heads. Sure enough, the defenders had the two gunners under fire now.
If anyone hits the gunpowder, at least it won’t hurt for long . . .
Wondering what to do, Mathis looked at the peasants, who were still trying in vain to get up the ramp and storm the castle gate. Four of them already lay on the ground, dead or wounded. Only Philipp von Erfenstein had almost succeeded in reaching the breastwork of the fortifications by ladder. But by now his sword arm looked tired as he brought it down on the defenders, and his movements were slower.
“Someone must tell Scharfeneck’s landsknechts to come and help the peasants,” Mathis said. The noise was so loud that he had to shout to make himself heard. “If the soldiers don’t distract Wertingen’s men, I won’t be able to readjust the barrel.”
Ulrich Reichhart hesitated briefly, and then nodded. “You go to the count. I’ll deal with Hedwig.”
He gave Mathis a comradely clap on the shoulder, but the young man disagreed. “I have to stay here,” he said firmly. “If anyone knows how much powder the barrel will stand now, I do. It’ll be all right.”
Reichhart looked at him for a moment and finally grinned. “You’re a good lad,” he grunted. “Your father can be proud of you.”
With these words, he turned and hurried toward Sharfeneck, giving the castle a wide berth. Two or three arrows were fired at him, but he was out of range of the archers.
Meanwhile, Mathis turned back to the gun and readjusted the angle of the barrel. Finally he took a deep breath. Now he must expose himself to the greatest danger yet.
Charging the gun with powder and shot.
Since the wooden shield was destroyed, the muzzle of the cannon was now exposed, unprotected. Mathis estimated that it would take him a minute to charge the gun—a minute during which Wertingen’s men could pick him off like a fat capon. He closed his eyes and decided to think of something good. It might be the last thought of his life.
He thought of Agnes. Instinctively, he put his hand in his pocket and felt the wooden amulet she had given him when they said goodbye. It was warm in his hand.
Then he took hold of one of the heavy stone balls, picked it up with a groan of effort, and ran to the mouth of the gun with it. As he pushed the ball into the barrel, he heard a sudden hissing behind him. He ducked, and a crossbow bolt flew past just above his shoulder. He counted seconds in his mind.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty . . .
There was another crash beside him, and a second wooden shield splintered, but Mathis did not allow it to distract him. He now had the ball almost at the back of the barrel, where the force of the explosion would be strongest.
Forty, forty-one, forty-two . . .
The next crossbow bolt hit Mathis in the thigh.
He cried out, but he did not run away. One last time he pushed the stick so deep into the opening that it almost disappeared. Only then did he let himself fall behind the last remaining wooden screen. He picked up the fuse stuck into the ground beside him, and, breathing heavily, he lit the charge.
Fifty-nine, sixty.
Once again, there was such a mighty crash that for a moment the world seemed to stand still. Mathis curled up like a baby, the broken shaft of the bolt sticking out of his right leg. He felt the ground shake beneath him, and shouts came to his ears, but their sound was muted.
They were shouts of joy.
This time he had hit the foot
Mathis felt his heart leap up. He had actually done it. He had breached the wall. Only then did he see that the hole did not go quite all the way through. It was more of a deep dent that Fat Hedwig had left, and there was still solid stone behind it.
One more shot, he thought. One more shot and we’ll be through!
But would the gun fire another ball without exploding? How much more heat could Fat Hedwig stand?
Suddenly Mathis heard more shouting, and shots as well this time. Scharfeneck’s landsknechts had actually come to the aid of the few peasants still fighting. Melchior von Tanningen was also among the attackers. Together they were climbing the siege ladders or firing their arquebuses, from a safe distance, at the defenders on the battlements, who were now running back and forth frantically. Philipp von Erfenstein had made it to the breastwork, where he was fighting two of Wertingen’s men like a berserker. Melchior stood on a ladder level with the battlements, circling his sword in the air. Screaming, another defender fell off the wall.
His hands shaking, Mathis turned back to Fat Hedwig. It was a good moment. Wertingen’s men had been distracted; no one seemed interested in him and the gun. He began frantically cleaning the inside of the barrel of most of the remaining powder and cooling its exterior with wet rags. The bronze was so hot that a hissing cloud of vapor instantly rose in the air. Mathis poured powder into the mouth of the gun, picked up another cannonball, put it into the still-hot barrel, and rammed it down with the stick.
It’s going to explode. I’m sure it’s going to explode.
The air was still full of stinking smoke from the last explosion. Mathis coughed and sweated, and at last the ball was in the right position. He ran back again and lit the charge from there.
As the powder ate its way, hissing, through the touchhole, the young smith looked for cover behind some splintered casks. Then he looked ahead of him at the dent in the wall. Yes, they were nearly through it.
But something seemed to be digging or burrowing in the indentation. Soon after that, he heard a deep, angry barking that seemed to come straight from hell.
Mathis thought his heart was about to stop when a large, black shadow suddenly leapt out of the hole. It was the mastiff, Saskia, racing toward him, growling and baring her fangs. He had never seen any animal run so fast. The dog, who was the size of a calf, was already crouching to spring.
At that moment Fat Hedwig blew up.
The world in front of Mathis dissolved into blood and smoke. The explosion tore him off his feet. Something large shot just past his ear and crashed into a group of trees a good fifty yards away. The ground beneath him was wet and warm. Only after some time did he notice that he was lying in a pool of blood, probably his own. When he managed to look up, Mathis saw that the huge gun was lying on its side, torn open like a length of fabric, with black smoke pouring out of it.
There was no sign of the mastiff. Only a piece of smoking fur stuck to the muzzle of the gun.
More cries of joy rose, as far away as if they came from another world. Swaying, Mathis got to his knees and stared into the smoke ahead of him. At last he had dragged himself far enough to be able to see the castle wall.
A hole the size of a wide doorway gaped in it, and beyond that the castle courtyard lay open.
With a last sigh, Mathis fell forward and lay in his own blood, as the peasants and landsknechts stormed toward the breach in the wall, yelling with delight. His hands clasped the wooden amulet that Agnes had given him an eternity ago, or so it seemed.
Then he lost consciousness.
✦ 11 ✦
Outside Ramburg Castle, 3 June, Anno Domini 1524, evening
MATHIS WOKE WHEN SOMEONE THREW a torrent of water in his face. He opened his eyes and saw the grinning Ulrich Reichhart above him, holding a dripping-wet wooden bucket.
“I think you’ve been asleep long enough,” said Reichhart, his eyes twinkling. “You ought not to miss the celebrations, that’s what the castellan says. And Father Tristan has already tended your injuries. He came over from Trifels at midday. So you have no excuse to laze around any longer.”
“Celebrations . . . Father Tristan . . . ? I don’t understand.” Mathis rubbed his eyes wearily. All at once his memory came back. They were outside Ramburg Castle. He had breached the wall, the battle was won. Yes, Fat Hedwig had exploded, but at least she had served her purpose with the last shot that she fired. All the same, Mathis felt sorry, after all the work he had put into her. The big gun had been his masterpiece.
Shakily, he got up from the bed of straw and twigs where he was lying, and saw that he was in the middle of the temporary field camp on the saddle in the hills, not far from the robber knight’s castle. Night had fallen. Several campfires crackled, and the landsknechts sat beside them, drinking and bawling out songs. A few of the soldiers were so drunk that they lay asleep in their own vomit. Two peasants were performing a folk dance beside one of the fires, while a third played his fiddle.
“Have I been asleep all day?” Mathis asked Ulrich Reichhart, who had been drawing himself a tankard of beer from a large cask. The old master gunner laughed out loud.
“All day? Devil take it, you’ve been asleep for two whole days.We’re going back to Trifels tomorrow.”
“But . . . what have you been doing here all this time?” Mathis asked in surprise.
Reichhart took a long draft. He wiped the foam off his lips before replying. “What people do in war. We’ve been looting. First the castle, then the whole district. After all, the Ramberg peasants supported that bastard.”
“Only because they had to.”
“Huh, who cares about that?” Reichhart shrugged. “Don’t be so soft-hearted, Mathis. We got good loot, and the district’s secure again. That’s all that counts. That minstrel, Melchior, is on the way to tell the other feudal lords about it.” He grinned. “Fought like a demon, that frail little fellow. If you ask me, he’s better with a sword than a lute.”
Mathis was going to say something, but at that moment Father Tristan approached, leaning on his staff. The old monk raised a threatening forefinger.
“Good God in heaven, Reichhart! Didn’t I expressly say the boy wasn’t to get up?” he scolded. “He’s lost a great deal of blood. It’ll be your fault if he dies on me.”
Reichhart grinned guiltily. “He’s not going to die anytime soon, Father. A man who stands beside Fat Hedwig when she blows up isn’t going to be killed so easily.”
Laughing, Reichhart clapped Mathis on the shoulder and went away to get himself another tankard of beer. Only now did the young smith realize how tired he still was. He had fresh bandages on his leg, neck, and shoulders; his whole body felt as if it were wrapped in damp leaves. He felt slightly dizzy and had to sit down again.
“There, just as I said. Well, it looks like nothing will get you down.”
Father Tristan looked hard at Mathis and then sat down beside him on an upturned cart wheel. “There aren’t many I can help,” he said sadly. “So it would distress me a great deal if I’d been working on you in vain as well.”
Mathis glanced at the outskirts of the forest, where the bodies of at least half a dozen men hung from the branches of a large beech tree. They swayed gently in the evening wind, and several crows had already come down to feast on them. The outlines of Ramburg Castle stood out against the darkening sky. Thin threads of black smoke rose from it in several places, and some of the sheds and stables were still burning in the outer bailey.
“How many men died?” asked Mathis.
Father Tristan frowned. “I haven’t been counting, but just about all Wertingen’s men-at-arms, and a good many of the peasants who were helping him. Not so many on our side, but five of those young peasants are among them. And an arquebus exploded in
“How about Black Hans?”
“Count Scharfeneck is keeping him for a public trial,” replied the monk wearily, cracking his gouty knuckles. “The idea is to have him hung, drawn, and quartered in Speyer, but Philipp von Erfenstein doesn’t go along with that idea. He and the count are discussing it in Scharfeneck’s tent right now.”
Mathis suddenly felt queasy and propped himself on Father Tristan’s shoulder to keep from falling over. The monk took out a little bottle and handed it to him.
“Drink that. It’s a mixture made of tormentil and arnica to strengthen you. Agnes made it especially for you just before I set out.”
Gratefully, Mathis took a good draft of the aromatic medicament. It tasted sweet, and the fluid seemed warm as it lay in his stomach. He immediately felt a little better.
“How is Agnes?” Mathis asked hesitantly.
“How do you think? Worried to death about you, you idiot! When the first messengers came yesterday with the news that Erfenstein had won, her thoughts were all for you.” There was a twinkle in Father Tristan’s eyes. “She’d like to be here, but I said her father would murder her if she came, so she decided to wait for you at Trifels.”
Suddenly they heard loud voices from the camp. When Mathis turned around, all that he saw at first was a large black shadow being pushed into the large tent by several landsknechts. Only after a while did he see that it was a man wrapped in chains from head to foot. He stumbled several times but remained upright. When he stepped into the light of the largest fire, Mathis recognized who it was at last.