The Castle of Kings by Oliver Pötzsch
At this moment the sun came out from the clouds, shining on Erfenstein’s face. To his surprise, Mathis saw that the castellan was beaming.
He’s about to fight in single combat to the death, and he’s happy about it, Mathis thought. I’ll never understand these knights.
And now, with the clink of metal, Hans von Wertingen, flanked by four guards, approached the circle marked out by the spears. The landsknechts had removed his chains and given him back his dented breastplate and round helmet. He carried the mighty broadsword that Mathis had noticed on their first meeting in the forest. The robber knight looked around almost reverently, noticing, with obvious satisfaction, the many spectators who had begun taking their places around the improvised arena.
“Weather worthy of this encounter, don’t you agree?” Hans von Wertingen said to his adversary, grinning.
In silence, Philipp von Erfenstein strode toward the circle, his armor clinking slightly with every step he took. It was well oiled, and so highly polished that it flashed in the sun. Looking at the castellan, no one could have known that he had been drinking well into the night and had snatched at most a couple of hours of sleep. Among the hung-over landsknechts with their colorful costumes, wild beards, and rusty pikes and arquebuses, Philipp von Erfenstein looked like an envoy from another world. The soldiers watched him in a mood somewhere between admiration and mockery. Many of them were no older than Mathis and knew fully armed knights and tournaments only from the tales told by their fathers and grandfathers. None of them had ever seen two knights in chivalrous single combat.
When the castellan of Trifels finally reached the circle, he bowed slightly to Wertingen, who returned the gesture. It was as if the two of them were conversing in a silent language that only they understood. There was a tense silence in the air.
Suddenly, slow hand-clapping began. Mathis glanced toward the count’s tent. Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck emerged from it, applauding the two adversaries mockingly. Then he sat down on a folding stool.
“An impressive sight, to be sure. Two knights showing courtesy to one another,” he observed in a self-confident voice. “You surprise me, Erfenstein. What makes you bow to a brute like that?”
“There are certain conventions to be observed,” the castellan replied haughtily. “But you’ll be too young to understand them.”
“Maybe. Too young and too impatient. Now let’s have an end to this mummery and get on with it.” The count incredulously shook his head. “A song of farewell to the old days. What a pity our minstrel isn’t here to see it. Very well.” He clapped his hands once more. “What is it that they say? May the best man win.”
The two knights raised their swords and began circling one another. Only after several minutes did Wertingen begin the fight by storming forward, sweeping his two-handed sword through the air, and bringing it down toward Erfenstein. The castellan parried the stroke, and for a while the two of them stood head to head. There were beads of sweat on both their faces, and their muscular arms trembled. Then they moved apart again, and a murmur of disappointment went through the crowd. Anyone who had expected a short, bloody battle was going to learn better.
Mathis observed the two knights closely. Now they circled again, like two hungry lions, exchanging blows in turn, each sword stroke from one parried by the other. Since they were fighting without shields, each stroke had to be fended off by the sword-arm alone—a very strenuous and painful procedure that quickly tired the combatants. In addition, the mud made every step twice as laborious to take.
The fight went this way and that, all in silence; only the sound of the two men’s swords and their heavy breathing was to be heard. The landsknechts standing around the circle had been betting on the outcome, and they shouted encouragement to whichever of the two they had backed. Only the count still looked bored. Mathis saw that he was sitting on his stool, showing no emotion except for an expression of satisfaction that came into his face when the blows fell faster.
By this time Philipp von Erfenstein had driven Wertingen, step by step, to the outer limit of the circle. The robber knight kept retreating and did not notice that one of the spears driven into the ground was right behind him. Coming up against it, he stumbled, flailed his arms in the air, and finally fell into the mud, cursing. Only at the last minute did he raise his sword to parry his adversary’s stroke.
All of a sudden Wertingen threw himself to one side, sweeping his own blade over the ground like a sickle. The crowd cried out when the broadsword struck the castellan’s leg with a clang. Philipp von Erfenstein staggered, and then he, too, fell.
Horrified, Mathis held his breath. A knight in full armor who took such a fall was virtually finished. He could seldom get to his feet again unaided because of the sheer weight of his armor, so lay on his back like a turtle, where he could easily be stabbed by his opponent.
Wertingen, with his light breastplate, found it easier to rise. He struggled to his feet, groaning, and immediately struck the knight still lying on the ground with his sword. The blade caught Philipp von Erfenstein on the inside of his elbow. The spectators cheered or cried out in dismay, depending which man they were supporting.
Black Hans took a step back and looked down, with satisfaction, at the castellan writhing at his feet. Blood ran from Erfenstein’s arm. Hans von Wertingen smiled, and for a moment he looked up at the heavens as if in prayer. Then he prepared to deal the death blow.
“Give the Devil my regards,” hissed the robber knight.
As the blade came down, Philipp von Erfenstein did something strange: without trying to avoid it, he stretched out his hand. He reached for the sharp broadsword with his armored gauntlet, and the blow that had so much strength behind it was abruptly halted. Wertingen uttered a cry of surprise. The castellan of Trifels tugged sharply at the sword blade, so that Wertingen lost his balance and fell directly on top of his adversary. He cried out in pain, and then, groaning, turned on his side.
Erfenstein had rammed his hunting knife into the other man’s belly.
A loud cry passed through the crowd, some of the landsknechts applauded, and even the young count had jumped up from his stool.
“Bravo!” he cried, clapping his hands. “What a magnificent spectacle, Erfenstein!”
The two men lay side by side, on their backs. Blood flowed from the wound in Wertingen’s stomach, his face was so muddy that it could hardly be recognized, but he was still moving. He ran his sword into the moist ground, from which vapor rose in the morning mist, and tried to stand by leaning on it. But Erfenstein, too, was moving. The old castellan rolled over and seized one of the spears driven into the ground. Bellowing with rage and pain, he hauled himself upright with its aid and stood there, swaying, but on his own two feet. With a single swift movement he pulled the spear out of the ground, and strode over to Wertingen, who was still kneeling in the middle of the arena, breathing heavily and with his head lowered. Both men had exhausted their strength.
Raising the spear, Erfenstein uttered a loud cry and brought it down in Wertingen’s shoulder. The blow was so heavy that the weapon broke apart into splinters. Blood shot from the wound in a jet and seeped into the damp earth, while the robber knight, still kneeling, stared incredulously at the shaft of the spear, its point still in him.
Erfenstein looked around for his sword, which was lying on the ground a little way off. Groaning, he picked it up, took the hilt in both hands, and went over to Wertingen.
“Hans von Wertingen,” he gasped, “I sentence you to death for all the evil deeds you have done in the forests of the Palatinate. For your robberies and rapes. For the murders of my man-at-arms, Sebastian, and my steward, Martin von Heidelsheim. For all these I—”
Black Hans looked up in surprise. “I have robbed, whored, and killed,” he wheezed, “but I don’t have your steward on my conscience, Philipp. I swear it by all that’s holy to me.”
Confused, Philipp von Erfenstein held back, but the count cried harshly, “What are
“By God, I swear . . .” Black Hans repeated.
“I said kill him!” Count Scharfeneck’s face was white as marble. “Let’s have an end to this farce.”
Grimly, Erfenstein nodded. Then his sword came down, severing Wertingen’s head cleanly from his body. The head rolled a few paces and then stopped, mouth open, eyes staring, right in front of the count’s stool.
Mathis turned away. He staggered several steps away from the crowd and vomited, groaning, while the men nearby broke into loud rejoicing.
✦ 12 ✦
The village of Ramberg, 5 June, Anno Domini 1524
THEY BURIED THE DEAD DOWN in the village on the morning of the next day.
More than twenty men had lost their lives in the attack on Ramburg Castle, as well as three old women who had worked there as maids and strumpets and had been slaughtered like animals in the murderous frenzy. But those worst affected of all were the Ramberg peasants. Most of their houses had been burned down, and their fields laid waste. When Mathis stood beside the fresh graves that the landsknechts had dug in the valley near the village graveyard, women and children stared at him with tearful, red-rimmed eyes. Many families had lost their fathers and breadwinners, and this year’s harvest was destroyed. By next winter at the latest, the weakest villagers would be dead of starvation. A small, grubby baby wrapped in a bundle of rags and tied to its mother’s back was howling at the top of its voice, and Mathis felt the sound go to his heart.
“What crime did these people commit for us to punish them so severely?” he asked quietly, more to himself than anyone else. He was standing a little way from the graves, watching the peasants’ families saying a last prayer together for their dead.
Beside him, Ulrich Reichhart shrugged indifferently. “They chose the wrong feudal lord.”
“But they had no choice in the matter at all.” Mathis shook his head without taking his eyes off the ragged figures at the gravesides. Several of them glared angrily back. “They can’t leave their own fields, that’s the law. Even if they want to marry someone from another village, they need their lord’s permission. They’re bound to him forever, until they die.”
“All the same, they’re better off than those fellows,” Reichhart said, nodding his head in the direction of the robber knight’s burned-out castle. The heads of Wertingen and his robber knights were stuck on the battlements, painted with tar, so that they would stay there as a deterrent until the crows had pecked away the last of the flesh from the skulls.
“That’s the way of the world,” Reichhart went on. “Peasants work, the clergy see to the salvation of our souls, and knights go to war. And that’s how it’s always been.”
“It doesn’t have to stay that way. Peasants can go to war as well.”
The old master gunner laughed. “Don’t let your father hear you say that. To him, knights are still messengers from heaven. Well, maybe he’ll soon be finding out for himself . . .” He stopped short when he saw the stony expression on Mathis’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“That’s all right. Hey, stop! Not so fast!”
Abruptly, Mathis turned away to help the soldiers now loading up carts and preparing to leave. His bandaged leg still hurt, but he ignored it. Grimly, he pulled one of the ropes now hauling up the wreck of Fat Hedwig. Once melted down, his masterpiece would be worth a good sum of money.
Mathis tried to give the work all his attention. He hadn’t thought of his sick father for days. Now he was suddenly overcome by frantic anxiety that the old man might be dead by now, and he, Mathis, had not even said goodbye to him. Would he soon be standing by his grave, like these peasants, stammering words that the dead could no longer hear? The hard work of pushing and shoving the stubborn oxen helped to distract his mind a little.
“Stubborn beast! As pig-headed as my daughter.”
That was the angry voice of Philipp von Erfenstein as he grabbed the horns of a nervous ox between the shafts of the cart in front. His sword-arm was bandaged, and he limped a little, but he could not be kept from taking part in the work—in spite of the disapproval of Father Tristan, who had last examined him only a few hours ago. The monk came over to Mathis, shaking his head.
“That wound could get inflamed anytime, and he’s lost a lot of blood,” said Father Tristan brusquely. “It won’t be for want of care on my part if the castellan dies of gangrene.”
“If he does, at least he’ll be complaining at the top of his voice.”
Mathis smiled. In fact it was hard to believe that Philipp von Erfenstein had fought in single combat to the death only yesterday morning. The old knight was in high spirits, and in spite of his injuries the duel seemed to have breathed new life into him. He seemed unmoved by all the dead around them. Mathis suspected that the castellan had seen far more carnage than this in his past battles.
It was another two hours before all the guns and the loot were loaded and tied down with ropes. The soldiers had commandeered two more carts from the village, which were now heavily laden with chests, bales of cloth, sheaves of grain, and pieces of furniture. Finally Mathis got up on the driver’s seat of the cart at the back, while the count and Erfenstein led the procession on their horses. An order was called, and then at last the baggage train set off with all the booty and the war materiel.
When the young weaponsmith raised his head, he noticed that a number of the landsknechts and the surviving peasants from Trifels were looking at him with respect. Since Mathis had breached the defensive wall of Ramburg Castle with Fat Hedwig, many of the men now regarded him as a kind of sergeant. They obeyed his orders, and no one laughed at his abilities as a gunner anymore.
When they were over the marshiest places in the valley, and the oxen were drawing the carts along the grass-grown road at a comfortable pace, Mathis wearily mopped the sweat from his brow. It was already getting late in the afternoon when they approached the first hamlets outside Annweiler.
“We worked hard back there,” said the man-at-arms Gunther from Trifels, sitting down for a brief rest. “All that shooting, stabbing, and swinging axes. I reckon we’ve earned a drink or two. You most of all, Mathis.” He winked. “Well, how about it? Coming with us?”
Baffled, Mathis looked at him. “Coming where?”
“We’re going to Annweiler this evening.” Gunther grinned. “The count has given most of his men the night off so that they can squander their loot. Ulrich, Eberhard, and I thought we’d spend a few kreuzers ourselves. The Annweiler innkeepers are donating a big cask of wine in honor of the day, the curfew is lifted, and there’s to be whores as well. How about it?”
Mathis smiled, and made an apologetic gesture. “You’re forgetting that the mayor of Annweiler is still after me. And what’s more, Agnes—”
“Oh yes, Agnes,” Gunther replied roughly. “Forget Agnes for once and think of yourself. Look around you.” He pointed to the landsknechts and peasants pitching camp beside them and beginning to chant a rough-and-ready war song about Black Hans and his end. The name of Mathis also came into it.
“You’re kind of a hero to the men,” said Gunther enthusiastically. “Why not celebrate for once? You can go back to your sooty smithy later and welcome, until the guns you make explode around your ears. But the way you always look as grim as the devil, I reckon a bit of fun would do you good.”
Mathis laughed. “You may be right. But that doesn’t change the fact that the mayor won’t want to see me amusing myself in Annweiler.”
“Seriously? You think Gessler would dare to arrest the hero of the battle of Ramburg?” Gunther produced a small silver flask, probably looted from the robber knight’s castle, and drank deeply from it. “The men here would snatch you from hell and beat up Old Nick himself if need be,” he went on. “Anyway, no one will know you in all the turmoil there.” He encouragingly held the silver flas
“Well . . . all right,” said Mathis at last, although he still had his doubts. “Yes, I’ll join you. But no whores,” he added, making a dismissive gesture. “That’s my condition.”
Gunther grinned and pressed the little flask into Mathis’s hand. “No whores, then. Agreed. If you drink this you won’t be able to get your prick up anyway. We’ll be off in an hour’s time.”
Mathis drank deeply, and the fiery spirits spread through him. He immediately felt a little better. He was a hero, at least for a couple of days.
And heroes certainly had earned a little fun.
Agnes stood on the battlements of Trifels Castle, watching from a distance as the baggage train approached over the fields below the castle. She had been waiting all day, and now, early in the evening, here they came. Six carts crammed with all they could carry were jolting up the steep path to the castle at snail’s pace. Agnes could hear shouted orders and loud laughter from where she stood above the living quarters. She picked up the skirts of her gown and ran down the stairs toward the soldiers. When she finally reached the castle acres below, they were just beginning to unload the loot. From horseback, Count Scharfeneck was directing several peasants taking chests and crates over to his own castle. Frowning, he turned to Agnes, who was sweating and breathless after running so fast.
“I hope your unladylike conduct is solely due to your delight in seeing us back safe and sound,” he said, at the same time counting the separate crates again. “As I’m sure you have seen, we were very successful. That cunning dog Wertingen had hoarded all kinds of things in his castle, although I’m afraid the pickings were poor from his peasants’ houses.” The count sighed as he let another crate pass. “Well, never mind. Even subtracting what I must pay my landsknechts, there’s still a good sum of money left for me.” He hesitated before going on, with a smile. “And for your father too. But first, of course, he must pay what he owes the duke out of it.”