by J. K. Swift
Today was the official start of training for the “Confederate Army of Free Men” as Noll had officially named his volunteers. The local judge named Walter Furst, and old Werner Stauffacher of Schwyz, known more for being the husband of Gertrude of Iberg than for any particular doings of his own, had opposed the idea. They wanted to simply call the army the “Eidgenossen”, an old way of referring to those who had sworn The Oath.
Thomas had learned in the last few days, that the oath they referred to was some written pact made twenty-five years previously between the people of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden. Each member community swore to uphold their ancient laws and to come to the aid of one another if they were threatened by an outside force.
Thomas suspected that they had envisioned that threat would more likely be from bandits, or some minor lord looking to take advantage of unprotected peasants. But Noll had pulled out the original document and had inflamed the passions of the locals by claiming The Oath may have been drawn up before his time, but there was no doubt it was created for just such a moment as today. Now, he said, was their one chance to throw off the yoke of their Austrian overlords, and with the support of Walter Furst and Werner Stauffacher, the three communities rallied to his words. Word spread quickly, and men began to trickle in to Altdorf, and the Confederate Army of Free Men was born.
An appreciative murmur shot through the crowd. Pomponio had just demonstrated a disarming technique on one of his men, and now basked in the crowd’s attention.
The Venetian was a man of excess. He wore a red vest over a cream-colored blouse of silk, and breeches that fit so well, Thomas had no doubt they must have been tailored. But, as grand as his clothes looked, especially compared to the simple farmers and foresters seated before him, Thomas noted the fabric was thin in places and the colors faded from too many washings. Though he was far from an expert in fashion, Thomas had been around enough nobles and high-born merchants to recognize the outdated styles of yesteryear. However, when looking at the Venetian, most people would never notice these things, for they would inevitably find their eyes drawn in by Pomponio’s outrageous hat.
It was a blue, wide-brimmed piece that could have been cut from half the felt. With several brightly dyed feathers thrust through its green and turquoise hat-band, it flopped around like a living thing, yet somehow managed to remain on his head while he lunged, parried, laughed, and mocked his opponent.
Pomponio dismissed his current adversary and beckoned to another one of his men, a dark-haired, younger man with a smooth complexion and wide shoulders set atop a narrow waist encircled with a purple sash. His long, oiled hair was pulled back from his face and gathered behind his head with a length of white lace.
“Salvatore. Lend us your strength for a moment if you would.”
Salvatore took his mark across from Pomponio and raised his sword in front of his face in a salute.
Pomponio raised his own long, narrow blade. It was a fencer’s weapon, with a basket guard that served to protect his hand.
“Attack,” he said.
Salvatore immediately bellowed out a loud war cry, which induced flinches from the first few rows of onlookers, and then he thrust straight ahead at Pomponio’s mid-section. Pomponio stepped forward and met the attack with his own hair-raising yell, and smashed the young man’s sword away with a powerful, straight-on block. Then, he drove Salvatore back the way he had come with a strong series of thrusts and attacks. The young man back-pedaled furiously, parrying as best he could, until he stumbled under the assault and fell to his back.
Pomponio put a foot on the man’s chest and gently rested the tip of his sword under his chin. He looked into the crowd. “The man is dead, no?”
The comment produced some chuckles from the crowd. They were beginning to warm up to the Venetian.
“Although my technique was effective, it was ugly. Very ugly.” Pomponio stepped away from his opponent. He leaned over and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “You see how tired I am? You see what ugly technique can do to a man? If I must fight like this all day, like the common soldier is taught, I am soon exhausted.” He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of one arm. “Come evening, even if I survive the day, my bella waiting for me at home, she will be very disappointed, no?”
The laughter came much easier from the villagers now.
“If a man practices swordplay solely with the intention of besting an opponent, that man is missing the point. A dancer must train hard to make his craft appear effortless. Should it not also be so with a master swordsman?”
He smoothed one of the feathers from his hat and then carefully placed it on the ground behind him. “Seeing is believing. Let us try.”
Without being asked, Salvatore bounced up to his feet and slashed the air with his sword. The other three Venetians drew their own weapons and spread out.
“We have you now, you Venetian fop,” Salvatore said. His voice rang out clearly, easily carrying to every set of ears in the courtyard. A few men laughed, some only smiled, but all sat up a little straighter to get a better view.
Pomponio waved his sword arm in a graceful circle and carried the motion through into a bow. Then he straightened up, and with another arc of his sword, settled into a relaxed, upright fencing stance.
“Very well,” he said. “Please, attack.”
As one, the four men screamed and charged Pomponio. He deflected the nearest man’s sword and slid behind him, while ducking under another’s wild swing. He reached out with the flat of his blade and tapped the first man on the back of his head.
“Dead!” he shouted. The man cursed, gave a quick bow, and retreated out of the circle where he sat cross-legged on the ground. He rested his chin in both hands, looking more than a little dejected.
The others continued to come at Pomponio with powerful-looking attacks, but the swordsman weaved and spun about them, deflecting blows only when absolutely necessary. He grinned and laughed and twirled like the only man present at a ball of princesses.
“Dead!” he said to another, who groaned and backed out of the fray.
He parried an attack, and touched the man’s heart with his slender blade.
“Dead!”
Only Salvatore remained. The anchor-shouldered man charged, and Pomponio slipped to the side. He whacked the man on his buttocks with the flat of his blade, and Salvatore jumped and let out a squeal.
“Cut! But, not dead,” Pomponio said, grinning and shaking his head. Salvatore roared and raised his sword over his head. He brought it crashing down toward Pomponio’s head, but when the blow fell it struck only hard dirt. Pomponio stood to the side of Salvatore with the tip of his blade touching his neck.
“Dead,” he said. “Oh, so very dead, no?”
One villager had become so engrossed with the battle that when Pomponio dispatched the last man, he could no longer contain himself. He shouted and began clapping. Others also forgot all sense of inhibition, and they too let out a few whistles. The mood spread like wildfire and within seconds the entire crowd was caught up in cheers for the Venetians.
Pomponio took his bows and then held up his arms for silence.
“This is the Pomponio way. My friends and I will teach you my methods, and in a few short months each and every man here will be the equal of five Austrians!”
There were some doubtful looks exchanged throughout the crowd, mostly amongst the older faces, but they were by far the minority. To the young men of Altdorf and Schwyz, the flamboyant Venetian represented hope.
“So today, my students, your first exercise is to go into the forest and find for yourself a training sword. This is no mindless task. Put careful thought into its selection, and treat it as you would your best friend. We meet back here the day after tomorrow to begin training in earnest.”
Thomas had seen enough. He pushed himself to his feet, picked up his cloak off the rock, and almost walked straight into Seraina. He hopped to one side to avoid hitting her and
put too much weight on his still healing leg. He grimaced and Seraina reached out to steady him.
“Oh, I am sorry Thomas. I do have a habit of startling you,” she said.
“It is my own fault,” Thomas said. He stood up straight and tried his best to ignore the tremors of pain running through his thigh.
“I could start wearing a bell, I suppose,” Seraina said.
“I would not oppose that. At least until my injuries have fully healed,” Thomas said. The truth was, he was recovering amazingly fast. Whether it was thanks to Seraina’s skill, or simply God’s Will, he could not be sure.
“Well? What are your thoughts?” Seraina asked.
“I… think you saved my life,” Thomas said. “In fact, I am sure of it.”
Seraina cocked her head and gave him a puzzled look. “Not about that,” she said, and nodded toward the center of the courtyard. Pomponio and his men stood talking with Noll. The villagers were filtering out of the courtyard since there would be no more training for the day.
“I wish to know what your impressions are of the men Noll hired to train his army.”
Thomas shrugged. “I think this Giovanni Pomponio puts on a good show.”
“He does at that,” Seraina said. She stared at Noll and the Venetians. “But I wonder if he is truly capable of teaching farmers and goatherds how to use a sword.”
Is anyone?
Thomas kept the thought to himself and looked at the sky. Thick clouds were gathering, blowing in over the Alps, where an hour before there had been nothing but blue.
***
“The day after tomorrow? What is wrong with tomorrow? Or even this afternoon for that matter,” Noll said. The Venetians had been in Altdorf for six days, and they had yet to hold a single training session for Noll’s army. But they had not missed a single night of drinking at the Altdorf inn, compliments, of course, from the Confederate Army of Free Men.
Army.
The word still sounded strange to Noll’s ears, even when spoken in only his inner voice.
Pomponio sighted down the length of his sword, looking for nicks. “One must learn to conquer haste, Master Melchthal, lest it conquers you, no? That is the Pomponio way.”
Noll crossed his arms. “What about not keeping your side of a bargain? Is that also the Pomponio way?”
Salvatore heard Noll’s comment and made to step forward, but Pomponio put his hand on the taller man’s broad chest.
“Easy now, my friend. If you are unsatisfied with my methods, I give you back your gold. We return to Venice and I shall go back to teaching at my famous school, where I have students from the families of nobles and kings begging me to impart even a small piece of my fighting style. It is no problem.”
“Just how much time do you think we have? The Austrians will be here next summer and our only hope is to create an army from nothing,” Noll said.
Pomponio nodded and placed his hand on Noll’s shoulder. “I hear what you say. And it can be done. But we must mold these villagers of yours into fighting men, and to do that we must treat them like iron. We heat them, little by little. Then pound out their imperfections, and then we heat them some more. Only when they are ready, do we dare thrust them into water. It is a process that cannot be rushed, no?”
Noll looked into Pomponio’s eyes. “The day after tomorrow then. But no later.”
Pomponio smiled. “You carry too many worries for one so young. Let us carry some of them for you.”
Noll spun and walked away.
Chapter 10
Two of Noll’s burliest men dragged the shackled and weakened form of Berenger Von Landenberg from his prison cell out into the frigid courtyard. When they let go of his arms, he groaned and dropped to his knees. He squinted against the direct sunlight and attempted to shield his eyes with his manacled hands.
Walter Furst, Werner Stauffacher, and his wife, Gertrude of Iberg sat at a simple table in front of him. To their right stood Noll, shaking his head. Seraina leaned against a boulder in the background holding the boy Mathias on her lap. She cringed when the men brought out Landenberg. Noll recognized the pity in her eyes, but he could not understand it. Landenberg was a monster, and the world would be a better place without him.
“Stand up,” Noll said.
Landenberg blinked and turned his head in Noll’s direction, but did not make any attempt to push himself to his feet. Noll nodded to his two men. “Make him stand,” he said.
They each grabbed an arm and lifted the overweight Vogt unceremoniously to his feet, as if he weighed no more than a child. Landenberg’s legs shook, but before he could collapse, his captors steadied him.
Walter Furst, the once Habsburg appointed Justice of Uri, cleared his throat. Today, he did not wear his black cloak of office. All three of them seated behind the table were dressed in the normal, loose-fitting garb of peasants who worked the land.
“Sir Berenger Von Landenberg, we the Council of the Eidgenossen, find you guilty of all charges. Do you have anything to say before we pass sentence?”
Fueled by his hatred of Noll, the Vogt summoned up a small burst of energy, enough to spit in the young man’s direction. Noll did not bother moving, for the small ball of phlegm stopped far short of his boots.
“Missed again,” he said.
“Your time will come! All of you, your time is near. Heed my words you godless, peasant gecks! Soon this place will be thick with soldiers cutting off your heads and having their way with your rotting corpses.”
Landenberg had to break off his mad sputtering due to a series of coughs. Red-faced, and exhausted by his brief tirade, his chest heaved as he glared at the three people seated in front of him.
Noll too looked to the table. “Anyone wish to recast their vote? I still stand behind a hanging.”
Furst shook his head. “That is in Landenberg’s hands now.”
Landenberg’s eyes widened. Apparently, the thought that he might be executed had not yet entered his thick skull. “You cannot hang me. It is not within your rights!”
Gertrude spoke up. “As of this moment, we have every right. For we have decided that we will no longer be subject to the laws of the Holy Roman Empire. Or the Habsburgs. We, this council, will be the final stage of justice for all of Schwyz, Uri, and Unterwalden and will recognize the authority of no other court. Now, do not speak again unless you have our leave.”
Landenberg looked from face to face, his skin was suddenly pale.
“What Gertrude says is true,” Furst said. “However, we are determined that this court will not be unjust. Therefore, today you will be presented with two choices.”
Noll rolled his eyes. Who ever heard of giving criminals choices?
“The first choice, is a quick and painless hanging. Someone will pull on your legs to ensure that it is so,” Furst said, almost cheerfully.
Landenberg’s mouth twitched. “What is the second choice?” he asked.
Stauffacher spoke up. “You will swear the Urphede.”
“What is that?” Landenberg said.
“You must swear an oath that you will never return to these lands upon pain of death.”
“And what happens to me if I take the oath?” Landenberg asked.
“You will be allowed to go anywhere you like, so long as you never set foot in Uri, Schwyz, or Unterwalden ever again. If you do, your life will be forfeit.”
Noll could not help himself. “Does not a simple hanging sound so much better?”
When Landenberg spoke, he could not get the words out fast enough. “I swear to never return. I choose the oath! I swear it,” Landenberg said.
“Of course you do,” Noll said. He addressed his next words to the council. “And I swear to see Sir Berenger Von Landenberg delivered safely to Habsburg Castle.”
“Noll, I do not think we can allow that,” Furst said.
“He is my prisoner. My responsibility. That is the least the Council should allow.”
“He has a point,” Gertrude
said. “Someone must escort the Vogt off our lands, and who better for the task than Noll Melchthal? No one knows better than he where our lands begin and where they end.”
“You might as well hang me now as allow this highwayman to slit my throat on the road to Habsburg!” Landenberg said.
Furst glanced over at Gertrude and Stauffacher. Something passed between them and then he turned back to Noll. “Do you swear you will do all in your power to deliver him unharmed?”
“Define unharmed,” Noll said.
“Alive, then,” Gertrude said.
“That I can do. I swear it on my father’s good name.”
“A father you have not visited in years,” Stauffacher said.
“How does that concern you?” Noll said.
“Henri is a friend. A blind friend who spends far too many evenings alone,” Stauffacher said. “I know for a fact that he would more than welcome a visit from his wayward son.”
“You know less than you think,” Noll said.
“The whole lot of you are mad!” Landenberg shouted.
“Gag him,” Gertrude said. “He has had his say.”
The two men complied and within seconds Landenberg’s shouts were reduced to muffles.
Noll called Mathias and the boy bolted over to him. “Pack me some food and water for the road.”
“Will you need horses?” the boy asked.
“No. I will go on foot. It will be safer that way.” He glanced over at Landenberg. “But our fat friend will never make it. So get me the most ornery, skittish mule you can find.”
Mathias grinned and saluted. He was off running before anyone could say another word.
Noll took no chances. He pushed deep into the forests and traveled only on seldom-used game trails. If he had been alone, he would have stayed closer to the main roads, but with Landenberg draped over the mule, grunting at every jostle, he could not risk being heard by one of the frequent Habsburg patrols. Noll was well aware of how human sounds had a peculiar way of echoing through the trees and off of boulders, and carried much further than most people realized.
