“Now,” he said, “where were we?”
Albrecht von Düsberg hesitated, staring at his own fingers. He couldn’t conceal what he thought: that no matter what question he asked, von Salza already knew every answer. In knowledge lay power, and the Hochmeister of the Teutonic Knights was as powerful as he could legally become. The Order was nothing like as strong in brethren or wealthy in land as the Templars and Hospitallers, and only connections, determination and some more unusual abilities had saved them from being swallowed up.
Hermann von Salza was also more than just another knightly monk: as an Archduke of the Empire he represented that Empire’s authority in a wild land not long wrested from its even wilder inhabitants. The heathen Prusiskai still lived in the shadows of the forest, their tribal shamans wielders of a fiercer magic than any countenanced by Holy Mother Church. Only their lack of organization, and the mailed knights who opposed them, kept them from reclaiming the new lands of the Order for their own once more.
“The aspects of sorcery, Grand Master.”
“A good enough place to begin, I suppose.” Von Salza didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. “It appears that everything I thought I knew is out of date. Popes change, opinions change, and as I’ve said already,” again that engaging, crooked grin creased the skin around von Salza’s eyes, “neither Palestine nor Prussia is at the centre of civilized, educated discussion. Nor are the lands and seas between. I’ve made that journey four times now, and I can assure you it doesn’t improve with repetition. But you, my dear Treasurer, have travelled directly from Salzburg with information that I trust is fairly fresh. Among the few things I know for certain is that His Eminence your cousin not only journeyed to Rome for the Papal election, but has been a frequent visitor to the Holy See ever since.
“So then,” Hermann von Salza’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur and he leaned forward across the chessboard, less like the Grand Master of a military Order than a man eager to hear another man’s news, “what’s been happening in the world? Begin with the matter of Magic, but don’t stop there.”
Albrecht von Düsberg smiled weakly and swallowed down a throat gone so dry that not even another hasty mouthful of wine could help. Any discussion involving both the Art Magic and the Vicar of Christ held too many chances for a thoughtless man to talk himself into excommunication. Only the Pope himself had the power to excommunicate a knight of the military Orders, but that wasn’t much consolation. Gregory IX had already shown himself short of temper, patience and Christian charity; if he could excommunicate an Emperor, then a mere knightly treasurer would hardly make him pause for breath.
“At present, Herr Hochmeister, the Papal attitude to sorcery is guarded approval, referring largely to the rulings of the Fourth Lateran Council. The infallibility of His Holiness Pope Innocent hasn’t yet been called into question, but several of his proclaimed edicts lapsed from statute under Pope Honorius, and Pope Gregory has amended others.”
“Yes,” said von Salza. “I should imagine so. Especially after that stupid business when the Italian Jews were ordered to wear red hats. Or has the incident been officially forgotten?”
Von Salza had witnessed it himself. On an infrequent visit to Rome he had seen the embarrassing encounter between an elderly, very short-sighted abbot and a Jewish merchant. The abbot, not seeing the Jew’s red hat too clearly, had made a wrong assumption and, in plain sight of far too many people, had mistaken the merchant for a cardinal and dropped to his knees for a blessing. Hermann von Salza had been scandalized. He had also laughed so hard that his sides hurt…
“Not forgotten, Grand Master. Their hats are yellow now.”
“Just as well.”
“Jews in Germany have been commanded to wear a yellow badge—”
Von Salza grunted dismissively, and made hurry-up movements with one hand. “Never mind that. What else?”
“The interdict of the Second Lateran Council against the crossbow or arbalest was confirmed under pain of anathema, except against pagans, infidels or heretics, it being a weapon hateful to God and unfit for Christians…”
“An interdict both passed and confirmed by fat clergymen who’ve never faced a charge of mounted knights. I don’t presume to speak for God,” von Salza crossed himself in protection against such casual heresy, “but it’s certainly a weapon hateful to the enemy you shoot with it.” He gestured at the racks of crossbows all along the castle walls. “Given what was spent to equip this place, you as Treasurer should be glad the Prussians were declared pagan. Otherwise all that money has been wasted. Yes?”
“Yes, Grand Master… Er, His Grace Otto the Bishop of Riga has requested aid against the obstinate pagan Livonians who refuse to be made Christians…”
At mention of the Bishop of Riga, Hochmeister von Salza said nothing aloud but smiled very slightly into his wine cup. That had been a master-stroke, more masterly still for having been arranged at fourth or even fifth hand. The number of removes didn’t matter; von Salza’s reach had extended all the way from Starkenberg in Palestine to the shores of the Baltic, and left no one the wiser. Livonia was secured by the small Order of the Knights of the Sword, led by a Crusader named Dieter Balke. Well known in Palestine as Hermann von Salza’s principal lieutenant and most sinister henchman, Balke had clearly slipped far from favour to be given so severe a penance.
Neither the Sword Knights nor indeed his Grace the Bishop knew that the Constable of Livonia still gave his fealty to von Salza. The Grand Master had decided to leave the Hospitallers and the Templars squabbling over the Holy Land, as they had done for so long. The future power and profit of the Teutonic Order lay in northern and eastern Europe, with heathen tribes to conquer for the glory of God and new lands to conquer for enrichment. The fewer who knew about that, the fewer would want a share.
“…His Holiness preached a crusade against the Saracens of Egypt, so that Jerusalem might be restored—”
“He could try ransom, reparation or a peace settlement rather than conquest.” This time von Salza didn’t smile, but his voice stayed quiet, its tone neutral, making it impossible to tell whether the plan behind the crusade pleased him or not. “Well, no doubt we’ll see what the Emperor can do.”
“Now he’s finally been forced to do it,” said Albrecht without thinking, then blushed bright red and clapped his hand over his own traitor mouth.
Emperor Friedrich had taken his crusading vows at the Council, in the presence of the Pope and an array of high churchmen from all over Christendom – even from England, where King John had only recently submitted to the Papal will and been welcomed back into the bosom of Mother Church. Friedrich had knelt before them all, his hands between those of Innocent III, and promised that with God’s help he would restore the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Twelve years of vacillation and two Popes later, Gregory IX finally lost his temper, so infuriated by constant postponements of the crusade that he called for bell, book and candle and excommunicated the Emperor. Friedrich set about keeping his long-delayed promise even before the anathema was lifted, thus providing both Christendom and Islam with the peculiar spectacle of a crusade led by an excommunicate.
“Yes, Brother Albrecht. Quite so.” The Grand Master gave no indication that he’d heard anything seditious in his Treasurer’s words. “But the rumours I heard suggested the real reason behind Gregory’s action was the Emperor’s interest in sorcery, and his friendship with the wizard Michael Scot. Has the Bull Maximae Naturae received imprimatur since Gregory took the diadem, or not?”
“Yes, Grand Master. It has.”
“Good. Very good.”
Von Düsberg looked quizzically at the Hochmeister, noting his satisfaction with the answer. “That was all you wanted to hear?”
“Far from it. There are other matters. There are always other matters. But a Papal Bull on what he’s pleased to call ‘great forces of nature’ tells me more about what His Holiness is really thinking than any number of rumours. It has a deal of bearing on
my future plans for the Order—”
His words stopped short as the double doors at the far end of the hall swung silently open and two men came in. They wore the tau-crossed grey surcoats of sergeant’s rank over their mail, and carried a many-branched candlestick in each hand. It was only when this new candlelight pushed back the shadows that Albrecht von Düsberg realized just how very dark the great hall had become. His eyes had been deceived by the light from the sconces along the walls, and by the rich glow from the open hearths that kept the chill at bay. Once the illumination had been proved inadequate the heating suddenly seemed so as well, and as the great stone mass of Castle Thorn pressed down around him, he shivered so violently that his teeth chattered. One of the sergeants glanced at him curiously from beneath the brim of his kettle helmet as he set his burden of candlesticks on a table, then walked all around the fireplaces and stoked them with fresh wood. That done, both men bowed to their Grand Master and left as silently as they had come in.
“Sergeants doing servant’s work?” Albrecht wondered aloud once the doors had closed. Von Salza nodded.
“Now you sound more like a Treasurer than you’ve done all day. Next you’ll wonder if the Order can’t afford to pay for servants any more.” That was so close to what was passing through von Düsberg’s head that he looked curiously at the Grand Master, wondering if his interest in the Art Magic had to do with reading minds.
“I…” He pulled his mantle closer around his shoulders. “Yes, Grand Master. And unless finances are much different here than in the Holy Land, it doesn’t surprise me.”
Hermann von Salza’s thin eyebrows went up. “An honest Treasurer,” he said approvingly. “Brutally honest, if not particularly diplomatic.”
“Diplomacy and ten bezants will buy you a camel in the marketplace at Antioch, Grand Master. If you haggle.”
“Whereas brutality can be much more effective?” Albrecht looked at von Salza and remembered some of the things he had seen done in the Holy Land, some by knights of his own Order, men like the now-Landmeister Dieter Balke.
“In the proper circumstances, Grand Master. The Order needs, and has always needed, more land, more revenue, and more brethren in Palestine, but since the Hospitallers and the Templars were there first, and love us no more than they love each other…”
Albrecht let the sentence trail off in a way that said more than finishing it, and reached for the wine-flagon. Von Salza accepted a refill, sat back in his chair and sipped briefly, then set the cup down in the middle of the chessboard with a small, sharp click.
“When a wise man finds one stall empty in the market empty, he goes to another. You’ve been very courteous, Albrecht. You haven’t once let me see you wonder what brings you here to Prussia, or why the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights isn’t where he belongs, at Castle Starkenberg in the Holy Land, I want you to help me value the stock of that other stall.” As von Düsberg began refilling his own cup the Hochmeister gave him a quick, cold smile.
“What,” he asked, “do you know about Russia?”
*
The Teutonic Order might have been in financially straitened circumstances, but there were still enough servants in Castle Thorn to rescue a knight who had spilled an entire flagon of wine. Albrecht von Düsberg was quickly provided with a new surcoat and mantle, his face, hands and boots wiped with damp cloths, and the scattered chessmen were picked up and dried.
Hochmeister von Salza watched the whole performance without expression, saying nothing but an occasional word of instruction until the servants completed their various tasks and left the hall again. Even then he sat for long silent seconds, lips pressed tightly together until all the colour went from them and his mouth became a tight, bloodless line. The Grand Master’s lips were compressed not in anger but in an attempt to hide how much he wanted to laugh out loud. Mirth at another’s misfortune would have been discourteous to a guest, but still…
By dint of great effort, von Salza brought both his face and his sense of humour back under control without hurting himself, his dignity or the laws of chivalry. His fondness for the dramatic, seldom indulged while dealing with notoriously humourless prelates, had deliberately dropped the word ‘Russia’ into von Düsberg’s lap like a live snake, and the reaction had been – well, ‘appropriate’ was close enough.
Von Salza considered that was just as well; a man who acted and replied in the way he thought a superior would want to see and hear wasn’t the sort of man to give safe, accurate advice. Albrecht von Düsberg, on the other hand, had already shown a tendency to speak his mind with both mouth and body, and if he ever became confident enough to do it all the time he would become an advisor well worth having.
The Grand Master leaned his chin on one cupped hand with all the unruffled elegance of a well-dressed nobleman, one who managed to stay that way by not flinging wine and chess-pieces about the place. He glanced at the shiny places on the tiled and patterned floor where the mess had been, then gazed at von Düsberg and said, in a voice so carefully modulated to neutrality that it spoke volumes, “I presume from your reaction, Brother Treasurer, that you think the proposal is a good one. Yes…?”
Von Düsberg shifted damply on his chair while Hochmeister von Salza watched him ponder the implications of what was being suggested. Albrecht was learned, able to read and write in Latin, French and High German, and von Salza knew he was also trained in algorism, the new art of calculating with Saracen numerals. But none of his learning helped him reach a decision, for there were too many variables and not enough certainties. There was, though, the prosperity of the Order. That was why, as the Grand Master suspected he would, Albrecht von Düsberg finally agreed.
“Yes, Grand Master. It’s good.”
Hermann von Salza relaxed, inwardly surprised by how tense he had become. The Grand Master wasn’t a man given to tension; at least, not given to showing it, and not usually even to feeling it. This situation was different. If von Düsberg hadn’t agreed, and the disagreement was on some point of high-minded principal rather than sound financial reasoning, then it might have been necessary to… Ensure his silence.
“Grand Master?” There was an edge to von Düsberg’s voice that hadn’t been there before. It drew a curious glance from von Salza, the sort of glance that seemed to anticipate the word ‘but’.
“Yes, Albrecht?”
“Grand Master, as Treasurer I understand the Order’s need for lands and revenues of its own, but—” yes indeed, there was the word, “—I can’t understand how such lands could be acquired from the Rus.” He was staring at his hands as if the right answer was written on them. “They won’t sell, and neither the Pope nor the Emperor would permit a war of conquest against another Christian nation.”
“No? I think they will.” Albrecht von Düsberg’s head jerked up at the certainty in the Grand Master’s voice. Von Salza regarded him calmly, and smiled. The Treasurer had been a little slow to understand, perhaps because his position required him to think overmuch in straight lines; but as von Salza watched that plump, ruddy face, it was like an abacus whose beads were dropping into place. “Have you forgotten what we now call the Fourth Crusade?”
Albrecht had not. The Fourth Crusade had brought shame and, worse, embarrassment to all Christendom. Sent out like the three crusades before it, with the blessing of the Pope, to wrest the Holy Land from the grasp of the infidel, it had been distracted from its course so much so that it had ended in the sacking of Christian Constantinople by Christian knights. And the Pope…
…had said nothing until after it was done.
“Of course the Crusaders on that particular enterprise were mostly French,” said von Salza as if that explained everything. “And being French, they no longer hold the lands they won. If they’d been Normans, it might be a different matter. But the fact remains that Constantinople was sacked without the Pope raising his voice in protest even once. Why, Albrecht? Why?”
“I suppose because they were only Greek
s,” said von Düsberg, “and since the Greek Orthodox Church doesn’t regard the Pope as its spiritual leader, His Holiness had little concern over what was done to them.” He shrugged, crookedly, with one shoulder, a gesture more characteristic of the Cardinal-Archbishop of Salzburg than he knew.
*
Von Salza knew it, however, and raised one eyebrow. The words his Treasurer had spoken were probably borrowed from Cardinal Joachim as well, but from the sound of it von Düsberg held that same opinion. The Hochmeister smiled. Converting von Düsberg to his point of view might be easier than he had thought, if any conversion was needed at all.
“Think about what you’ve just said, Albrecht,” said von Salza quietly, “then think about what you called ‘another Christian nation’.” Von Düsberg thought about it, and the comprehension that crossed his face was as clear as sunrise. The Grand Master nodded once, satisfied no further prodding in that particular direction was required, and began counting points briskly on his fingers.
“First is the Rus heresy. There’ll be no difficulty in gaining approval for a crusade against their third-hand version of the second-hand Greek church.” Von Salza glanced at Albrecht von Düsberg. “In all the books you’ve read, did any tell you how the pagan Rus chose Greek Orthodoxy rather than the True Faith?”
Albrecht shook his head. The Cardinal-Archbishop’s library had contained histories, of course, but they had been histories of times and peoples comfortably long ago and far away. Then the Greeks had been philosophers and artists, pagans through a lack of knowledge rather than heretics by choice.
The Grand Master grinned at him, a tight little stretch of the mouth that had altogether too many teeth in it. “Then we have a book here you should read. Remind me to show you sometime. You’ll find it enlightening. This castle may be in the back of beyond, but the library is as good as any in more civilized places.” He raised his hand again and counted off another point.
Firebird (Tales of Old Russia Book 2) Page 2
