“Archbishop Ferdinand, “Melchior had expected it to be harder not to give in to his anger at the man causing so much trouble with his personal ambitions, “it’s time to go home.”
“Home?” the old man’s eyes slowly focused on Melchior, “There is no home. It’s all gone.”
“No, it’s not.” Melchior squatted down in front of him. “The Archdiocese and City of Cologne will probably end up joining the USE, but the palaces in Cologne and Bonn are still yours as well as some of the land. You might not find it much, but it’s there, you can come, and you are still the Archbishop of Cologne. I have a letter for you from Cardinal-Protector Mazzare. It was forwarded to me from your palace in Bonn.” Melchior reached inside his doublet for the letter, and held it towards the archbishop.
“No! I will not end my life as a powerless parish shepherd, consoling myself with the glories awaiting me in Heaven. I will not! The power is mine! I am The Archbishop of Cologne, I will not fail!” The old man’s voice rose to a scream as he pushed himself up from the stool; only to collapse, clutching at his stomach, vomiting blood.
Melchior caught him and waited for the spasms to pass, wiping the contorted face with his handkerchief. Maxie had mentioned her cousin’s troubled stomach in the letter asking Melchior to find him, but this was far worse than she had indicated.
“Archbishop Ferdinand, please becalm yourself, you are obviously making yourself ill with your obstinacy. What you dreamed and hoped for is not to be. Or at least you cannot reach it by the path you walked.” Melchior lifted the old man head, looked into the eyes filled with equal pain and fury and tried again. “I’ll tell what is left of your Guard to strike the camp and arrange your transportation. And please remember: the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, those belong to God and God alone. Always and forever. You must now take up the task that you have been given for whatever glory it may bring.”
“Never.”
“I believe you heard the archbishop’s answer, General von Hatzfeldt,” Melchior looked up into the attenuated face of Sister Ursula.
“You here, Sister? That is unexpected.”
“I am a servant of the Lord, Herr General, and fulfill the tasks He sends my way to the best of my abilities.” To Melchior’s great surprise the usually weak and brittle woman actually managed to look somewhat dignified.
“Very well.” Melchior stood up and gave up being kind. “If the two of you do not wish to go to Cologne, I must ask you to choose some other destination. Leaving you here is not acceptable.”
“Oh.” Sister Ursula’s voiced was suddenly exactly as Melchior remembered it. “And does this letter from Cardinal-Protector Mazzare place a general of the Holy Roman Empire above a high-ranking prelate of the Catholic Church?
“Not at all, Sister. I am acting on behalf of Sister Maximiliane, who worries about her cousin’s health. Would you care to take up this discussion with her?” Melchior didn’t wait for an answer but continued. “I am presently in military command of the area between Koblenz and the Dutch border, and once you tell me where you wish to go, I’ll issue the necessary papers. The roads are passable, but given the state of affairs in Bavaria, I am afraid I cannot suggest any other destination for you, than Bonn or Cologne. I shall be lodging with my men at the Inn of the Gray Squirrel outside Zuelpich, and awaits you there tomorrow. Good Afternoon.”
Chapter 43
Bamberg
March 25, 1635
The river was running high with melt water under the bridge as Franz stopped to look beyond the lower town and up the hill towards the Cathedral. It was getting late, and the dusk was quickly turning to darkness as the light faded from the sky. Riding into a town with important meetings and negotiations ahead of him was nothing new, but this was personal; this would be his chance to regain his Kingdom, fulfill his plans and dreams. All the years he had worked in the service of one high-ranking prelate or another, using all his diplomatic skills and knowledge to further other peoples ambitions, it all came down to this, this battle would be entirely for his own.
“Would you get your bloody arse moving. I want warm beer and hot stew.” Wolf’s hoarse voice cut through Franz’s calm and brought him back to the here and now.
“You’re right. We are both cold. It’s been a long journey.” Franz’s pleasure at having finally reached his destination even made him feel charitable towards his grumpy cousin. Not that Wolf had been a bad travelling companion. He was really very useful when it came to getting good service, and making shifty looking individuals back away, but his impatience with all the unavoidable delays that came with travelling in wintertime had been somewhat annoying.
The two men started their horses and slowly made their way along the streets until Wolf stopped outside a large tavern. “I think we better gather information separately, cousin. What’s in your purse?”
Franz sighed and threw the small leather sac to Wolf. “Not enough to buy the brewery, but you should have enough to buy a few rounds for your table. I’ll tell the porter at the Cathedral’s dormitory to expect you and give you a room.”
Wolf didn’t answer, just got off the horse and threw the reins to Franz before disappearing into the large tavern. Well, Wolf would make his own way up the hill, or just roll himself in his cloak and sleep wherever he could—or he might get over his aversion to barmaids. But fortunately Wolf’s morality—or lack of it—wasn’t Franz’s problem.
Franz continued slowly across the lower town with its still bustling shops and markets. It was a lot cleaner than it used to be. No dung heaps blocking the gutters, no signs of chamber pots being emptied into the streets. There were hardly even any horse-droppings and all of those fresh, as if the streets were cleaned daily. Father Johannes had told that this was how it was done in the American town, Grantville. Rather pleasant. Made the streets seem inviting, and speeded up the movement, which should encourage trade. It should also encourage wealthier people to go to the shops themselves instead of always sending the servants. Not the nobility, of course, they had the traders come to them to show them their wares. Still, clean streets probably increased luxury trade, and the American idea of emporiums, and perhaps some kind of trading arrangement with the Abrabanels similar to what Heinrich had arranged in Mainz...
Franz’s musings only stopped when he reached the Geyerswoerth Palace. It had been the residence of the Prince-Bishops of Bamberg, and was now supposedly where the Americans had their headquarters. The quite brightly lit rooms showed that they had not stopped working at dusk to save the candles, but he really need much more information before making contact, so Franz turned the horses up the steep street to the Cathedral.
* * *
“My dear, dear friend. Oh, if only we could sit and talk the night away, as we used to do. This would give me the very greatest of pleasure. But the best possible opportunity for you is right now. Are you in immediate need of anything?” Schönborn was obviously dressed to go out. And for something quite formal to judge by the quality of his black cassock.
“No, not really. I’m fairly hungry, but if you still keep sweets in that bonbonier I see on your desk, I’ll make do with a few of those.” Franz smiled at Schönborn clasping his hands and almost dancing with enthusiasm.
“Oh, we can do better than that.” Schönborn grabbed Franz’s hand and pulled him out of the room and along the corridors to the kitchen, where he grabbed a platter of small pies and was out the door to the courtyard before the cooks had time to do more than shout in alarm. “These were for Domherr Bitterfeld and his cronies. They supposedly gather to play chess, but in reality they just stuff their heads and gossip. Here fill your pockets.”
The two men emptied the platter, and Schönborn gave it to a stable boy along with the last pie.
“Bitterfeld is also in the center of your present opportunity.” Schönborn continued as the two men walked down the street to the river as quickly as the slick and half-frozen cobbles permitted. “Only it’s his cousin, Councilor Bitterfeld, rath
er our Domherr Bitterfeld. Councilor Bitterfeld is newly elected to the Würzburg City Council, and one of Father Arnoldi’s strongest supporters.” Schönborn turned to look briefly at Franz. “When the news about Archbishop Ferdinand’s flight from the Hessian attack reached us, Councilor Bitterfeld tried to get the council behind making Father Arnoldi some kind of interim bishop until it was revealed whether you had survived.”
“The council can have nothing to do with such a decision. That is entirely a church matter, and something to be even considered only in the most dirge emergencies. I think the last time it happened was during the plagues.”
“Yes, and who in the Würzburg Council was in support of the proposed petition, and who was against it were quite illuminating.” Schönborn’s smile held nothing of its usual cheer.”But Councilor Bitterfeld’s newest scheme involves you in a different way. Do you remember the Dreimark vineyard?”
“Yes, a large south facing field that has belonged to the Eberhart family practically since the deluge. It is—or at least was five years ago—planted with golden grapes brought north from Bois on the Loire by an Eberhart, who went there as a journeyman, two generations ago. When left to ripen completely the grapes produce a very good golden wine. It’s a bit tangy when young, but matures exceptionally well. I think the area suffered some damage when the Protestant army attacked.”
“I stand in absolute awe of your memory.” Schönborn detoured around a puddle where a cobble was missing and continued. “Councilor Bitterfeld has been trying very hard to get his hands on that vineyard. First he tried to buy it from Maria Eberhart, the widow who owned it, and when she refused to sell, he tried to claim that her husband, Zacharias Eberhart, had given it as collateral for a loan. Recently he has tried to get it from Maria Eberhart’s sister, who is also an Eberhart, and also married to an Eberhart, and who inherited it after Maria Eberhart disappeared under mysterious circumstances last autumn. Maria Eberhart, by the way, was declared dead after an indecently short time—although her body wasn’t found. Right now Councilor Bitterfeld is trying to get the American administration to support his claim on the basis of two documents. One is supposedly a copy of Herr Zacharias Eberhart’s testament donating the field to the Würzburg Cathedral, the other a document stating the sale of the field to Councilor Bitterfeld under your seal and written by your old secretary, Otto Tweimal. Right this moment Frau Kacere, who is in charge of such disputes, is holding a formal hearing of the case. She is most learned in matters of laws and contracts, but she is sorely missing the archives you brought with you into exile.”
“Yes, she would. I can see that.” Franz started walking faster as they reached the foot of the steep street, and headed straight for the Geyerswoerth Palace. “I remember the testament, and that field had been a part of his wife’s dower, and would not have been Herr Eberhart’s property to donate or sell. Tweimal’s role in this is more dubious. I haven’t seen him since last autumn, when he disappeared from Archbishop Ferdinand’s camp, and I wouldn’t trust that little turncoat to shave me. What can you tell me about Councilor Bitterfeld?”
“Pompous, bad-tempered bore, who has only the friends that he can buy. Very, very easily offended, and reacts all out of reason to the slightest insult. He has amassed a suspiciously large fortune since the Protestant attack. And he hates women, especially those who are young or outspoken. He tries to hide that, but having Frau Kacere in charge is a serious problem to him, and that her assistants are usually women—and often nuns—only makes it worse.”
* * *
The room had been a large formal dining room when Franz had last been in Bamberg. The richly decorated walls were the same, but this evening benches in rows lined three sides of the room while a big table filled with documents and a tall lectern occupied the fourth side. Two groups of people clustered around the benches at opposite sides, while what were obviously spectators filled most of the benches by the door, but Schönborn took him directly to the big table where a smiling young girl in a blue dress was sorting papers under the directions of a pleasantly looking older woman, while a young nun in a simple brown habit was setting up a secretary station with paper and writing tools.
“My very best greetings on this glorious evening to you and your delightful handmaidens, Frau Kacere.” Schönborn gave a deep bow while pretending to swing a hat from his head to his chest in the French style. “It gives me the greatest pleasure to introduce to you the esteemed Bishop Franz von Hatzfeld, who has just this hour arrived in Bamberg.” He turned to Franz. “My dear friend. This is the learned Frau Kacere, who has most valiantly taken on the task of putting the land and its owners to the right. It’s my most sincere belief, that the two of you would reap the greatest of benefits from working together.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Frau Kacere.” Franz thought quickly through what Father Johannes had told him about American manners and stuck out his hand. “I have a friend, Father Johannes the Painter, who spend more than a year in Grantville, and who has told me about the American preference for getting directly to the point.” He gave a slight bow with the handshake and continued, when Frau Kacere smiled and nodded. “The Würzburg bishopric’s archives, which you must most sorely need is presently in Cologne. They have been mixed somewhat with papers from Fulda, but my sister, Lucie von Hatzfeldt, has almost completed the process of separating and listing the documents. I have brought along the lists, and would like to present them to you in the morning.”
Frau Kacere’s smile was getting bigger and bigger, so he went on. “As for your present undertaking: I well remember the Dreimark vineyard, and it was part of Frau Maria Eberhart’s dower when she married her cousin, Herr Zacharias Eberhart. It was set aside as part of her widow’s share in the bridal contract, and would only have belonged to Herr Eberhart’s side of the family after her death. Not only would I have remembered if this very fine vineyard had come to the church, but I am willing to swear on the Bible that the Dreimark vineyard was not Herr Eberhart’s property to dispose off when I left Würzburg.”
“The papers were handled by your secretary, Otto Tweimal.” A big blustery man in rich velvet robes broke away from the group on the left side of the room. “It was just before you fled from the attack, and the papers were lost, and have only recently come to light. They are there on the table with your seal on. And besides: how come you claim to remember such details from a minor marriage contract?” He looked up and down Franz’s threadbare and dirty appearance and sneered.
“The dispensation for the marriage between the two cousins was my very first act as bishop, and may I see the document of sale and the testament?” Franz was much too used to diplomatic maneuvering to let the other man’s insults affect him, and simply accepted the papers from the broadly grinning young girl in blue. Judging from her excellent teeth she was almost certainly an American, though a bit tall for her to be Frau Kacere’s daughter. The tall lectern had two lamps mounted on moveable brass rod in a construction, that Franz wanted to copy as soon as possible, and was by far the best lit surface in the room, so he placed the papers carefully under the light, and started to examine the seal and the details in the writing.
“Here. This is Frau Kacere’s personal property. Please be careful.” The young girl hurried to bring Franz a wooden box containing a big lens set in a grey material and wrapped in yellow velvet. Franz looked to Frau Kacere for permission before using the lens.
“Beautiful. This is by far the finest lens I’ve ever seen.”
“Old eyes fade.” Frau Kacere had taken seat behind the big table, and was obviously prepared to give Franz as much time as he needed.
“Oh, so is this by any chance borrowed from your father?” The light compliment came automatic from Franz, while almost all his attention was on the papers.
“Frau Kacere, this is an outrage, and I have wasted enough time on this. I bought the vineyard in good faith from the Würzburg Cathedral, though I knew it might be destroyed by the attacking army. That th
e papers were somehow mislaid has given me no end of trouble and bother. First with that insolent widow Eberhart, and now with her sister, whose husband is definitely derelict in keeping his chattel in line!” Councilor Bitterfeld now sneered towards the group of people by the benches on the other side of the room, where an older man with big hands started walking towards them.
“Is that Frau Eberhart that you describe as chattel?” The young girl in blue came round the table towards the councilor. “You must be in your dotage not to have realized . . .”
“Terrie!” Frau Kacere’s voice brought the young girl to a stop. “Please leave the room.” She turned towards Councilor Bitterfeld, and Franz was impressed at how well such a small woman could look down her nose at a big man. “Councilor Bittefeld, your private opinion about your opponents in the case is of no interest to me, and if Herr Zacharias Eberhart made an illegal bequest in his testament, then that does not make the vineyard the church’s property to dispose off.” She turned to Franz. “Bishop Franz, have you any remarks upon the documents?”
“Yes, Frau Kacere. Both documents are written in the hand of Otto Zweimal, both are equally faded and on the same type of paper suggesting that not much time had passed between the writing.”
“So, that just means that a farmer made a new will in a turbulent time, and had a church clerk write it for him,” Councilor Bitterfeld interrupted. “There’s nothing unusual in that. And if the church didn’t own the vineyard then it owes me the money back I paid.”
“That sounds reasonable.” Frau Kacere looked towards Franz. “Would you agree to that?”
“I would except for the seal.”
“Isn’t that your seal?”
“Yes, but my seal suffered a small damage during my exile, and I had the edge re-cut with tiny facets along the bottom. If you compare this seal with the one attached to the documents in the iron bound ledger I recognize over there, you’ll see the difference. The seal on the bill of sale is less than two years old. I last saw my seal—and Otto Zweimal—last autumn.” Franz considered Councilor Bitterfeld; much as he disliked the man, it was possible that he was guilty of nothing more than an unpleasant personality. “Herr Eberhart was killed when the Protestant armies attacked, so the sale must have taken place just as we were leaving Bamberg. To whom did you pay your money?”
1635- the Wars for the Rhine (ARC) Page 28
