The Castle of Kings by Oliver Pötzsch
Agnes looked into a void. What had the count just said about his excavations?
There was a little . . . well, let’s call it an incident.
Cawing, the two crows rose from the tombstone.
“How fortunate that my father did not marry me off to Martin von Heidelsheim,” said Agnes calmly, still looking out through the window. “Or you’d have gone away empty-handed. I’m sure you remember Heidelsheim?”
“What, the faithless fellow who left without a word?”
“That’s not entirely true. He was found in the end, buried in a makeshift grave, with a crossbow bolt in his throat.”
Agnes turned to the count, whose face now assumed a sympathetic smile. “How terrible,” he sighed. “But this part of the country is simply not safe. One can easily fall victim to highwaymen and murderers. Many a man goes too far into the forest and then can’t find his way out.” Scharfeneck’s voice was very low now, but it cut through the air like a sharp knife. “If I were you, Lady Agnes, I’d take care not to venture very deeply into the forest. It would be a shame for any harm to come to that beautiful face.” Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck looked at her for a long time, his smile frozen like ice. Finally he laughed, and the threatening atmosphere relaxed.
“But why are we talking about the dead?” he went on affably. “Let’s speak of the living.” He rose to his feet and went over to the bookshelves, where a carafe of wine and two glasses stood ready. Humming a tune, he poured the wine and handed Agnes one of the sparkling crystal goblets.
“You are a clever child, Agnes. Clever and endowed with an inquiring mind,” he said in a confidential tone. “A miracle, really, with such a stupid clod for a father. You ought to be proud that you will soon be able to call yourself a Scharfeneck.”
Agnes felt her hand tighten around the glass so firmly that she thought it would break. “I’ll never be a Scharfeneck,” she replied coldly. “I remain the mistress of Trifels.”
Surprised, the count raised his eyebrows. “The mistress of Trifels? A worthy title, to be sure. It seems to me that you are growing up at last.” Smiling, he raised his glass. “Here’s to the mistress of Trifels, then. And to the Norman treasure that we’ll soon find here.”
Agnes did not touch her goblet to his, but put it to her lips and drank the heavy red wine down in a single draft.
It tasted like blood.
With weary eyes, Mathis watched the fat bluebottle flying in wide circles around the cell. The heat of the summer day seemed to have made the insect as dizzy as he felt himself. Buzzing angrily, the fly collided with the wall several times before finally coming to rest on the floor, which was covered with dirty straw. A large spider shot out of a crack in the woodwork and disappeared into a dark corner with its prey.
Leaning against the wall of his cell, Mathis closed his eyes, but it was impossible to sleep. He had been crouching here all day, in the heavy heat of the top floor of the guardhouse. Much of the time he had been able to see the glaring sun through a barred window, but it had now disappeared behind the town walls. Evening was approaching, and Mathis thought how, only a few months ago, he had been locked up in the keep of Trifels Castle. He had spent many days and nights there, yet he hadn’t felt as lonely as he did now, in Annweiler.
They had put him in the notorious “drying-out cell,” a room reinforced with iron that sat above the guardhouse, by the lower gate. In winter, a prisoner’s saliva froze to lumps of ice in his mouth here; in summer it was as hot as hell under the metal ceiling. The cell could bring any troublemaker, however rowdy, to see reason.
In spite of the heat in the stuffy room, Mathis was shivering—from fear. This time there really did not seem to be any way out. His sentence had been as good as passed already: he had allegedly murdered the mayor of Annweiler, and if he didn’t confess, the executioner in nearby Queichhambach would presumably leave him dangling from the ceiling of the torture chamber, with stones hanging from his feet, until his bones were dislocated from their joints. Mathis had once seen Master Jakob dragging a stubborn thief, convicted of stealing from the offertory box, to the gallows. The man could no longer walk by himself, his limbs as slack as those of a puppet with its strings cut. How long would Mathis be able to endure torture? Or was it better to confess at once in order to buy a quick, clean death?
Mathis groaned and licked his cracked lips. He was thirstier than he had ever been in his life. Last night’s hangover had not entirely worn off yet, and the heat left him feeling like a dried apple. Presumably the town councilors of Annweiler were hoping to get a faster confession by these means.
They need me, thought Mathis. Only if I confess will no suspicion fall on the municipal dignitaries, and the duke will be placated.
For the hundredth time, Mathis went over to the barred window on the eastern side of his cell and looked out over the rooftops of the town to the Sonnenberg, on which Trifels Castle stood enthroned. Inaccessibly far away. Why had he let himself be persuaded to visit Annweiler? Up there Agnes was waiting for him, and so were his mother, his little sister, his father . . .
Father.
Mathis felt a stabbing pain in his chest when he thought of his father, lying mortally sick in bed. Was he still alive? Hans Wielenbach would surely have been proud of his son. Mathis gritted his teeth. Now, at the most, his family would only be able to wave goodbye to him while he was choking on the gallows.
Footsteps on the creaking stairs made him spin around. Now clattering and shouting could also be heard. Obviously another prisoner was being brought up to the drying-out cell.
“Unhand me, you filth!” cried a deep voice. “I can walk on my own.”
Mathis jumped when he recognized that voice. It belonged to the old master gunner, Ulrich Reichhart.
Only a few moments later, the cell door opened and the guards pushed the recalcitrant Trifels man-at-arms in. He fell to the floor, cursing, while the bolt of the door was shot with a loud creak behind him. For a moment Reichhart stayed on the floor, then he scrambled up and looked at Mathis.
The old gunner was grinning hugely.
“Done it,” he growled, knocking dust off his shabby hose. “Wasn’t so easy to get taken up here. You have to really rile the guards if you want to be brought up from the cellar to the drying-out cell. However, no one likes to be called the stinking son of an idiot knacker.” He winked at his young friend.
Mathis smiled wearily. “I’m glad to have your company, Ulrich, but I must warn you, the heat here is downright unbearable.”
“Then it’s a good thing we won’t be hanging around for long.” Reichhart grinned again, and Mathis stared at him, taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t think I want to dry out in this dump like a toad, do you? There’s no way of escape down in the cellar, but the prospects look different up here.” Reichhart rose and crossed the small square cell, knocking cautiously at the iron-clad ceiling as he did so. There was a place in the far corner where it suddenly sounded hollow.
“Aha.” Satisfied, Reichhart nodded. “That’s the spot they meant.”
“Who?” asked Mathis, confused. “What spot?”
“Mathis, Mathis.” Ulrich Reichhart shook his head impatiently. “You may not have noticed, but you’ve set an example to a lot of the poor folk hereabouts, and not only since the storming of the Ramburg. They still tell the tale of how you helped Shepherd Jockel to escape and fooled the mayor of Annweiler. Then you defeated the terrifying Black Hans. And now they love you for sending that miserable bloodsucker Gessler to fry in hell. You’re a hero, Mathis, can’t you see that?”
“But I didn’t—”
“You don’t have to pretend to me.” Reichhart shook his head impatiently. “That scoundrel fully deserved to have his head blown off.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial note. “But when we’re out of here, you must tell me over a glass of wine or two sometime how on earth you smuggled the arquebus into the town. Can’t have b
Sighing, Mathis gave up. It was hopeless. To the people here, he was the mayor’s murderer and nothing was going to change that.
“You were suggesting that someone’s prepared a way of escape for us?” he asked.
Reichhart nodded. “They often shut peasants with rebellious notions up in here to get them to see reason. Last time, three weeks ago, the town council was holding a few men from Waldrohrbach in the drying-out cell. Their getaway was carefully planned, but at the last moment the men from Waldrohrbach were taken to Speyer and strung up there, as a deterrent to the locals.” He grinned and pointed to the ceiling. “Too bad for them, good luck for us. There’s only a thin sheet of metal between us and the sky. We’re expecting a visitor tonight.”
Mathis was so astonished that he could hardly believe his good fortune. “Is . . . is that really true?” he managed to say. “You mean we can soon get back to the castle and . . .” Then it occurred to him that from now on he was wanted not just for sedition, but murder, and his expression darkened. “Well, this time I suppose the castellan of Trifels won’t be taking me back into his good graces, what do you think?”
Ulrich Reichhart cleared his throat. “I . . . I overheard a conversation just now,” he hesitantly began. “There’s bad news from Trifels, Mathis. The castellan is . . . he’s dead.”
“Dead?” Mathis shook his head incredulously. “But how can he be dead?” he finally asked. “I mean, he wasn’t severely wounded.”
“It was apparently worse than any of us thought, and gangrene set in. He died in the early hours of the morning. His daughter was with him the whole time.”
And I wasn’t there to comfort her, thought Mathis.
Beside him, Ulrich Reichhart bit his lip. He seemed to be wrestling with himself.
“I guess that’s not your only piece of bad news, is it?” Mathis asked tonelessly.
Reichhart nodded. “You’re right. The conversation I overheard was between one of the guards and . . . and . . .” He sighed deeply. “And your mother. The guards wouldn’t let her see you, by order of the town council. Even though she wept and begged them, with your little sister holding her hand. Bloody pen pushers!” He spat on the floor, and then he looked seriously at the young weaponsmith. Mathis knew what was coming.
“And your father died last night as well. They say he asked for you.”
“Oh, God.” Feeling empty and burned-out, Mathis slid down the wall of the cell to sit on the floor, among the rubbish, mouse droppings, and dry wheat straw scattered over it. He drew up his knees and, in the last of the sunlight, stared at the ceiling and the dust drifting in the air below it.
Why wasn’t I there? Why?
“Your father was old and sick, Mathis,” Reichhart tried to console him. “If he hadn’t left us yesterday, it would probably have been tomorrow or the day after. The time for every one of us comes someday.”
Mathis thought what his father had been like when Mathis was still a child. Hans Wielenbach had been a tall strong man, invincible, a giant at the anvil. The castellan of Trifels had also been invincible—a noble knight and his loyal weaponsmith. And now they were both dead.
“My father and the castellan,” he began quietly, with his eyes closed. “They came from another time. I thought the new time was better, but by God, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
He fell into a brooding silence, and Reichhart left him alone. Soon the sun sank entirely, and the room became dark and pleasantly cool. Mathis still had his eyes closed, but he was not asleep.
Why wasn’t I there?
About two hours before midnight, faint sounds could be heard on the roof, like the paws of little mice scurrying up and down. Rafters and tiles were removed from the roof above the prisoners, and then Mathis heard the cautious boring of a drill. Looking up, he suddenly saw a tiny hole in the ceiling, with stars shining through it.
“Ah, there they are,” Reichhart said, rubbing his tired eyes. “I was beginning to think they’d forgotten us.”
The hole grew larger. Finally, someone pushed a sheet of metal aside, and in the light of a torch, a bearded face surrounded by unruly hair looked down at them.
It was Shepherd Jockel.
“Good evening, Mathis,” he said, grinning. “Didn’t I promise to pay you back someday? This time it’s your pretty face I’m saving; next time it’ll be your turn again.” He chuckled, like he had cracked a good joke. Quiet whispering could be heard behind him, and then a rope was let down to the prisoners.
“Come along,” Jockel whispered. “The two guards down at the gate are on our side, but I can’t speak for the men in the guardhouse. Fat Markschild and the other town councilors will kick the shit out of the guards when they find that you’ve given them the slip.”
By now Jockel’s assistants had enlarged the hole until one man at a time could get through it. Mathis took hold of the rope and hauled himself up on it. A sharp metal edge at the top of the hole cut painfully into his left side, then he was out on the roof. Breathing heavily, Ulrich Reichhart followed him.
Hunchbacked Shepherd Jockel stood in the moonlight with two peasants from the neighborhood whom Mathis knew by sight. One of them owned fields where the young crops had recently been trampled down by Scharfeneck’s mounted landsknechts, the other was the father of the boy who had been hanged in spring, on Bernwart Gessler’s orders. With his sparse gray hair, and his few remaining stumps of teeth, he looked old before his time. Trembling, the frail man took Mathis by the hand, and shook it.
“All of us peasants hereabouts are glad you finished off that bloodsucker,” he whispered. “You’re welcome to our company, weaponsmith.”
Mathis said nothing . He glanced at Shepherd Jockel, who smiled as he pointed over the rooftops to where the black ribbon of the forest stretched away beyond the town walls.
“There are more and more joining us every day, Mathis,” said Jockel, with a sparkle in his eyes. “Peasants and laborers, but also tanners, weavers, shepherds, knackers, runaway monks. The whole empire is a keg of gunpowder with the fuse burning. We live in the woods, waiting for the day when we can strike at last. It won’t be much longer, you wait and see. The era of the knights, the clergy, the princes and dukes is finally coming to an end.” He lowered his voice and looked around as if he were facing a large audience. “For a long time I thought we’d have the help of townsfolk as well. But you’ve seen where that leads. Now we simple folk must take our destiny into our own hands.”
“When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?” the two peasants whispered in chorus. It sounded like a prayer, and the old master gunner Ulrich Reichhart nodded agreement, too.
“You were right, Mathis, when you said the old times were over,” Reichhart said, clapping Mathis on the shoulder paternally. “New times are coming, and there’ll be plenty for a couple of gunners like us to do. The castellan of Trifels was a good master, but there aren’t enough of those. So let’s make sure that we can be our own masters.”
Once again, Mathis found his eyes straying to the forest. How many might be waiting there, armed with scythes, boar spears, and threshing flails? A hundred? Two hundred? Maybe even more? It was what he had always wanted, and yet his heart felt strangely heavy. It was as though he had only just realized that they must fight for their rights, with sweat, tears, and blood. A great deal of blood. He thought of the first shot he had fired in the forest from the stolen arquebus, the shot like thunder that had turned the man before him into a shattered heap of flesh.
New times are coming.
Shepherd Jockel and the two peasants were looking expectantly at him.
“What are you waiting for?” Jockel asked suspiciously. “You don’t want to go back into the drying-out cell and let those fat moneybags hang you tomorrow, do you?”
Mathis shook his head. Do I have any alternative? he thought. Then he hurried after the other four men as they jumped from roof to roof over the narrow alleys of Annweiler
The forest awaited them, its trees like a rank of fierce soldiers, ready for anything.
Book Two
THE STORM
APRIL TO JUNE 1525
✦ 14 ✦
Scharfenberg Castle, 5 April, Anno Domini 1525
THERE WAS AN EERIE SILENCE in the Knights’ House of Scharfenberg Castle. Only the logs on the hearth crackled, and the solitary guest sitting at the table smacked his lips loudly.
From one of the window niches, Agnes watched old Count Ludwig von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck eat his supper. Bending low over the table, her father-in-law did battle with a well-seasoned haunch of venison. Ludwig’s shaven chin shone greasily in the light of the torches, bones crunched, and his knife cut through the roast meat and grated on his silver plate. Finally the imperial count wiped his mouth, belched with satisfaction, and reached for his goblet of wine, only to push it aside with an expression of distaste.
“This wine tastes like horse piss. Don’t you have anything better?”
The old man drew down the corners of his mouth and then tipped what was left of the red wine in his goblet onto the rushes on the floor under the table. Like all the Scharfenecks, he had thin hair and a penetrating glance, which he now bent on his son Friedrich, who sat in an armchair beside the large fire. For a moment Friedrich seemed about to utter a retort, but then, looking bored, he simply snapped his fingers. A young servant appeared from behind a column and bowed low to him.
“Fetch our guest some of the new Rhine wine that was delivered only yesterday,” Friedrich ordered tonelessly. “Maybe a cool white will be more to my father’s liking than this heavy Palatinate red, although considering his rheumatic limbs I doubt it. However, he’s old enough to know his own mind.” With a tilt of his head, he indicated the door. “The wine is down in the kitchen, so off you go—or do I have to make you get a move on?”