The Castle of Kings by Oliver Pötzsch
“Curse it, those are no guests! They’re—” Ulrich Reichhart shouted.
The “landlord,” clearly the band’s leader, pulled his dagger out of the counter and threw it at the master gunner, whose cry stopped short. Incredulously, Ulrich Reichhart stared at the blade quivering between his ribs, and then slowly slipped down with his back to the wall until he lay on the floor.
For a moment Agnes stood still, frozen to the spot. Then she ran to the doorway, where Mathis was still standing. The young smith was about to rush into the fray when his eyes fell on Reichhart, now bleeding freely. Horrified, he lowered his cudgel again.
“My God, Ulrich!” he cried, running to his friend. “Those bastards, those damn bastards!”
“Get the womenfolk to the boat!” the leader bellowed, still standing behind the counter. The little demon sat on his shoulder, spitting and hopping up and down. “Kill the others, and then we’ll clear out of here. Look sharp about it.”
The slightly built minstrel now stood exactly in the middle of the room, fighting four men. The blade of his sword, gleaming silver, seemed to be in several places at once. It was like lightning striking the men. When they realized that, for all his small stature, their adversary’s swordplay was far superior to theirs, two of the robbers suddenly turned away from him and ran for the door. They seized Agnes by the shoulder, her hat fell off, and her long hair tumbled out of it.
“Let me go, you murderers!” Agnes cried. “You . . . you—”
But she had no chance at all against the strong arms of her assailants. The men hauled her through the doorway by her hair. Someone hit her in the face, and the next moment she suffered another blow to her temple. It hurt so much that all went dark before her eyes for a moment. As if in a trance, she saw Mathis fall on one of the robbers, shouting and bring his cudgel down on the back of the man’s head. That man let go of her, but the other went on dragging her through the dark. She felt dirt and slush underfoot, and the rushing of the river came closer and closer.
Mustn’t . . . mustn’t . . . faint . . . away . . .
Hands passed over her shirt and her coat, grabbed the fabric, and heaved her into a boat. She felt it rocking under her. Up and down, back and forth . . .
“Agnes! Agnes!”
It was Mathis calling to her. But he was not with her, he was far, far away. Mathis had gone away . . .
“Agnes! Agnes!” came the voice again, but higher this time, like a wicked witch screeching. “Agnes, Agnes, Agnes, Agnes . . .”
Then she sank into darkness blacker than the waters of the river Queich.
When Mathis saw the two men dragging Agnes toward the river, something inside him exploded. Rage and hatred ran through him, filling him entirely, displacing every other thought. Shouting, he made for one of the robbers and hit him over the head with his cudgel. There was a cracking sound, like a nut being broken open.
Mathis jumped over the dying robber and was about to hurry after Agnes when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his thigh. An arrow had hit him, its feathered shaft buried a hand’s length in his right leg. He threw himself to the ground, gasping, and in the light of the full moon saw two figures kneeling by the dock, firing arrows at the tavern. By now the second robber had reached the boat, with Agnes.
“Agnes! Agnes!”
Mathis straightened up, but at once another arrow struck the ground beside him. He instinctively dropped again and rolled a little way aside, where an empty cart gave him some protection. He wondered desperately how to help Agnes without getting into the two archers’ line of fire himself.
Jockel must have sent them, he thought. If we’re out of luck, there’ll be more of these bandits waiting out there.
Screams and the crash of breaking crockery came from inside the tavern. Soon after that, the supposed landlord and another robber ran to the door. The leader held the young girl firmly, with a knife pressed to her throat. He looked cautiously to all sides. On his shoulder sat the small, hairy beast, a kind of animal that Mathis had never seen before.
The bearded man turned toward the tavern. Melchior von Tanningen appeared in the doorway, his sword ready for the next attack.
“Stay where you are,” the leader hissed at him “Or this pretty chick will be bathing in her own blood.”
While Melchior stayed in the door frame with his hands raised, Mathis crawled cautiously toward the dock. The darkness and a few casks and crates standing on the bank provided him with makeshift cover. The arrow in his thigh hurt like hell, and his hose were wet with blood. He clutched his cudgel convulsively as he made his way closer to the boat, where he thought Agnes would be.
“Stop hiding behind a girl; come out and fight like a man,” Melchior called from the tavern. “I’m offering you single combat, man to man.”
The robber chief roared with laughter. “What kind of a strange customer are you? Why would I fight you when I can have both girls anyway? Your massacre of my men in there is quite enough for me.”
He drew the weeping girl very close to him, his knife directly above the artery in her throat. Slowly, he and his companion moved backward to the boat.
“Not a step closer,” he warned Melchior, who was still hesitating in the doorway. “I’ve killed younger creatures than this.”
“Would you really show violence to a weak woman?” asked the minstrel incredulously. “That is more than unchivalrous.”
The bearded leader chuckled. “Who are you? A priest in disguise? Or a jester run away from your master? This stupid girl is nothing but an innkeeper’s daughter, good enough for a rundown brothel on the Rhine. I slit her father’s belly open in there before he could bat an eyelid. So why would I hesitate? This little thing won’t make me much money anyway.”
“Haven’t you a spark of honor in your body?”
“Not a whit. Honor won’t buy me anything. But selling a pretty countess will. Down on the Black Sea, the Turks will pay a good price for a white-skinned beauty of noble birth.” The animal on his shoulder screeched agreement, just as if he could understand what his master said.
During this exchange, Mathis had been crawling closer and closer toward the boat. At first he had been staggered by the minstrel’s astonishing naiveté, standing in the light in the doorway like a figure out of his own ballads, but then he had noticed the movement of Melchior’s eyes. The minstrel was playing a trick on the robber with his old-fashioned show of chivalry. If Mathis could eliminate the archers down on the dock, Melchior might be able to free Agnes with a swift attack.
“That countess has a great secret,” the minstrel said solemnly. “Let her go, and I’ll tell you what it is.”
“Well, well, a secret. When I’m alone with her she’ll whisper all her secrets into my ear, large or small, take my word for it. Now, shoot that mad dog down.”
The last words were for the archers. Two arrows whirred through the air, Melchior swerved back into the tavern, and the arrows fell somewhere behind the counter. Mathis knew that it would take the two men some time to bend their bows again. He straightened up and limped, shouting, toward the dock, where he fell on one of the two archers like a dark avenging angel. The man, who was not strongly built, dropped his bow and reached for his dagger, cursing, but Mathis was already on him. Flailing his arms, the robber fell into the river, screaming, and dragging Mathis down with him as he fell. The rushing waters of the Queich closed over them both.
Everything around Mathis turned black and cold. At last, after what felt like an eternity, he surfaced again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his adversary thrashing about and heard him gurgling. Evidently he couldn’t swim. The river swallowed up the struggling man and carried him downstream.
With a few strong strokes, Mathis swam back to the dock, but the boat had already cast off.
“No, no! Agnes! Agnes!”
In ultimate desperation, he clung to the handrail of the boat, but the bearded man kicked him in the face, so that he slipped down and sank for the second time. M
“Rah for emp’or Charles . . . rah for emp’or Charles!”
The words made no sense, but Mathis had no time to wonder what they meant. Water filled his mouth. He struck out frantically with his arms, but this time he couldn’t make it up to the surface again.
Forgive me, Agnes . . . I wasn’t able to help you . . .
Suddenly a hand grabbed Mathis by the collar and brought him out from under the dock. It was Melchior, who had leaned down to him and was now, with surprising strength, pulling him out of the river. Soon Mathis was lying on the planks like a stranded fish, spluttering and fighting for breath.
Together with the minstrel, he stared through the dark at a shadowy outline growing smaller and smaller. The screeching of the strange animal sounded one last time, like a contemptuous farewell.
Then the eerie sound and Agnes were both gone.
For some time there was nothing to be heard but the rushing of the river and Mathis’s gasps. He was still too weak to get to his feet. Finally Melchior turned away from him and bent to pick up his sword, which was lying in front of him on the wet dock. With a soft swish, the weapon returned to its sheath.
“This is vexing,” the minstrel murmured. “Extremely vexing.”
“Vexing? Are you in your right—” Mathis was about to utter a curse, but the pain in his leg and the cold made him stop, groaning. “Agnes has been abducted,” he finally went on, with difficulty. “Those devils will kill her.”
Melchior silenced him with an impatient gesture. “They won’t kill her. Didn’t you hear what that oaf said? He’s planning to sell her. Those scoundrels are obviously procurers, presumably put on our trail by the count or that rough-mannered peasant army. A countess will be far too valuable to such rascals for them to wring her neck the way they’d wring the neck of a goose. We only have to find Agnes, that’s all.”
Mathis uttered a despairing laugh. “And how are we to do that, for heaven’s sake? Those fellows can put in anywhere with their boat, land on the riverbank, and continue their journey on foot. We’ll never find her.”
“Not if we go fluttering around in circles like headless chickens. We’ll find Agnes again, trust me. You have my word of honor as a knight.” Melchior placed his right hand on his heart and adopted a military stance, which with his slight figure and the cap askew on his head looked a little strange. “What’s more, we ought to see to your injured friend now. If help of any kind is not too late for him already.”
Mathis gave a start. He had entirely forgotten the master gunner in these last few minutes. Shivering all over, he limped after Melchior and was soon inside the tavern.
The room looked like two dozen inebriated landsknechts had been wrecking it. Chairs and tables lay broken on the floor, along with shattered tankards, dishes, and plates. Near the doorway they found the body of the robber whom Mathis had struck down with his cudgel. He lay in a puddle of blood, staring at the ceiling in death, his mouth twisted in incredulous astonishment. A second robber lay among the remains of a table. Melchior’s blade had slit his throat. The body of the murdered landlord was still behind the counter.
Ulrich Reichhart was leaning against the wall under one of the windows, his head slumped forward, his limbs outstretched like those of a marionette with its strings cut.
Reichhart’s eyes were half open, he was breathing heavily, and the robber chief’s dagger was driven into his chest up to the hilt. Mathis could see at once that any help would indeed be too late.
“Ulrich, how are you doing?” Mathis gently approached his friend and comrade in arms. Reichhart had grown very close to his heart in the last year. “You . . . you’ll be all right, believe me,” he whispered. “I’ll get us some shepherd’s purse and birch bark, and then—”
Ulrich waved this away. “Young idiot. I know the state I’m in. Death is knocking at my door. Curse it!” He clutched his chest in great pain. “I . . . I always knew I’d end like this someday,” he gasped. “I’m the son of a vivandière, born on the battlefield among dead bodies and corpse robbers. I know when it’s over.” He closed his eyes briefly, before going on. “Where’s Agnes?”
“Those bastards have taken her.” Mathis bit his lip. “But you can be sure we’ll find her.”
Reichhart nodded, and a slight smile played around his mouth. “You’re a good lad, Mathis. Could have made it to sergeant in the army. You’ll go far, with that head of yours.” He laughed quietly, until he was suddenly spitting blood. “There I go, making clever firearms all my life, and a lousy dagger kills me. But dead is dead.”
“Don’t say that, Ulrich.” Tears streamed down Mathis’s cheeks. He felt like he had lost a father for the second time within a year.
“There . . . there’s something else . . .” Reichhart managed to say. “It’s to do with that ring, and the dreams tormenting Agnes. I ought . . . to have told you . . . much earlier. Now . . . now I guess it’s too late . . . oh, curse it, this pain . . .”
Reichhart’s fingers felt for the hilt of the dagger in his chest. Clutching it, he hesitated for a moment and then, with a swift movement, plucked the blade out of the wound. Blood poured from it, and Reichhart groaned. He fell to one side, and passed away.
“Oh God, no! It can’t be like this!”
Mathis bent over Reichhart, but there was no life left in the old soldier. A peaceful expression had spread over his face, all the pain and sorrow gone. Trembling, Mathis closed the dead man’s eyes.
“Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice. O let thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint . . .”
When Mathis heard Melchior’s soothing voice behind him, he joined in the ancient prayer. He had often spoken angrily to Agnes about the church and the pope, but now the solemn words gave him a strength that preserved him from despair.
“May he rest in peace. Amen.”
When they had finished, Melchior bent over Mathis and felt the broken shaft of the arrow in his leg.
“It’s not a deep wound, but it must be treated quickly or it will get inflamed. And you ought to take those wet clothes off at once.”
Only now did Mathis feel the cold again. He had been swimming in icy water for the second time in a single day. Shivering, he stripped off his shirt, and Melchior handed him his own warm coat.
“I’ll light a fire and see if I can find a few healing herbs in this place,” the minstrel said, reassuringly. “But we ought to be out of here by daybreak, at the latest, before the first travelers arrive.”
Mathis nodded in silence, feeling too weak to answer.
“What was it that Reichhart wanted to tell you just before he died?” Melchior asked thoughtfully. “Something to do with Agnes and her dreams.”
“Whatever it was, he can tell it to God alone now,” said Mathis, wrapping his trembling body in the coat. When he added no more, Melchior turned to the door.
“One more thing,” Mathis called after him. “That creature on the robber leader’s shoulder—what was it? It looked like a demon.”
Melchior turned to him with a faint smile. “It can’t breathe fire or work magic, if that’s what you mean. It’s a monkey. There are many of them in Sicily and the Spanish lands. They originally come from Africa. Mountebanks and quack doctors like to take them around the fairs.”
“A . . . monkey.” Mathis tried the sound of the strange word. Once again, he realized how remote from the world their life was here in the forests of the Wasgau. Beyond them, there were more things than he had ever dreamed of.
Exhausted, he watched Melchior take out the dead bodies and light a fire on the hearth. Until now, he had thought the minstrel merely amusing. However, now that he had seen him fighting, Mathis was beginning to develop something like respect for him. Melchior von Tanningen seemed to be a practiced swordsman, and experienced in other fields as well. He was probably the only one who could rescue Agnes now.
When the fire was burning, Melchior went out again. He came back only a little later, grinning, and carrying a bunch of dried herbs.
“I found this in the shed next to the tavern here: yarrow, plantain, comfrey root. Hung up to dry, a farewell message from last summer.” He paused, his eyes twinkling as he looked at Mathis. “And I found something else as well. Two horses. Not exactly noble steeds, but they won’t cost us anything. Mine host here won’t be needing them again.” He smiled grimly and adjusted his sword belt. “Those fellows will yet be sorry to have tangled with a minstrel knight from Franconia.”
✦ 17 ✦
Somewhere on the river Rhine, 22 April, Anno Domini 1525
THE BOAT MOVED STEADILY ALONG the sluggish waters of the Rhine. Vineyards, castles, and little villages passed Agnes like a toy landscape. A fishing boat went by only a stone’s throw from her, closely followed by a raft laden with casks and timber, drawn along by two oxen on the bank. A few men were lashing the load down, so close to Agnes that they would surely hear if she shouted for help. But she knew it was a forlorn hope. And what could the fishermen do but wave to her?
Agnes sat in the bow of the boat, trailing her hands in the cool water. She would have liked to dangle her feet over the rail as well, but Marek and the man they called Snuffler were watching to make sure she didn’t lean too far over. She had already tried jumping overboard once, on the day after her abduction. Thereupon Barnabas, the robber chief, had had her tied up. He no longer thought that necessary here, in the middle of the river, but all the same he had warned her.
“Next time you try getting away, I’ll tie you up again,” he had said. “And then I’ll throw you over the rail with my own hands. I don’t think you’d make it to the bank.”
Agnes knew that he would carry out his threat. She was valuable goods, but the procurer with his wild black beard and shaggy hair suffered fits of rage, and in them he forgot any kind of reason. In addition, Barnabas had not forgiven Agnes for the fact that three of his men had lost their lives during her abduction.