The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  A CART DRAWN BY TWO OLD nags jolted along the outskirts of the Rhine plain on its way to Neukastell. Gunther and Sebastian, two of the men-at-arms from Trifels Castle, sat on the driver’s seat. Although this was the end of May, it was uncomfortably chilly so early in the day, and thin wisps of mist hung in the dark fir trees that grew to right and left of the road. The two men had decided to take the longer way, which led below the line of hills. It had more traffic on it and therefore seemed safer to them. All the same, Sebastian kept looking to all sides and was unusually quiet.

  “Anyone might think you were watching out for ghosts,” muttered Gunther, sitting beside his friend and colleague. He had the reins in his hands and was chewing a piece of straw.

  “Not ghosts, you fool,” replied Sebastian, scrutinizing the firs again. “I’m looking out for robbers and suchlike rabble. There’s all sorts of shady folk out and about in these woods.”

  “You mean like Shepherd Jockel, gathering all the malcontents and runaway gallows birds around him over in Eusserthal?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “If only that was all. Haven’t you heard about the old midwife Elsbeth Rechsteiner? Vanished without a trace, like it was magic, and folk talk about a black man haunting these parts.”

  “Black man—ha!” retorted Gunther. “You superstitious idiot. I told you three times already, it’s that bastard Hans von Wertingen. Not a black man, it’s Black Hans they mean. See what happens when folk get to gossiping and telling tall tales?” He looked grimly at the surrounding woods. One of the many castles in this area stood on top of a hill not far away and, looking through the trees, Gunther saw rows of vines growing on the lower slopes. The cart was rolling along easily now.

  “It may be dangerous these days on the way to Eusserthal and on toward Speyer,” said Gunther. “But not here on the road to Neukastell. Not before the very eyes of the duke’s steward.” The man-at-arms laughed, although it sounded forced. “Not even Black Hans would venture that. What’s more . . .” and he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone, “what’s more, who’s to know that we’re on our way with the dues for the duke? Looking like we do, we could be carting a load of firewood through the forest.”

  Sure enough, the two men-at-arms wore shabby peasant smocks over their hauberks, and their iron helmets were hidden under simple hoods. Formerly peasants themselves, they had been working as guards at Trifels for the last ten years, and so far it had been a calm and peaceful life, on the whole. They kept their weapons in reasonably good shape, they mended a breach in the walls now and then, or helped to bring in the harvest from the castle acres. Now, for a change, they felt genuine fear. As well as Martin von Heidelsheim and the midwife Elsbeth Rechsteiner, other local people had fallen victim lately to robbers and murderers. So the castellan Philipp von Erfenstein had decided to have the dues taken secretly to Neukastell. Hidden under threadbare blankets, the cart carried six sacks of grain, a few pounds of precious salt, two barrels of pickled fish, some smoked hams, and a cage full of cackling geese. In addition, Sebastian had thirty newly minted Rhenish golden guilders in a purse under his jerkin, and several pieces of jewelry, with which Erfenstein had parted with a heavy heart.

  “How much longer before we get to Neukastell?” Sebastian asked anxiously, feeling the full purse.

  Gunther shrugged. “Maybe an hour? Once we get this damn deep lane behind us, the road goes steeply up the mountain. Then we’ll be able to see the castle.”

  “Hell, it’s time we polished off Black Hans,” Sebastian cursed. “In my grandfather’s time, these parts were as safe as a kitchen garden. But since the knights began going into decline, there’s been a starveling cutthroat in every other castle. And the emperor buys himself foreign landsknechts the way the likes of us would buy a tankard of beer. What sort of a world are we living in?”

  Gunther sucked his straw thoughtfully. “You wait and see, old Erfenstein will have to join the robber knights soon. Another couple of bad harvests, and that’ll be the end of chivalry, tournaments, and minstrelsy. And we can go lie in wait for travelers crossing the Bindersbach Pass, like Wertingen’s men.”

  “Before I cut the throats of children and old women up there,” Sebastian said, “I’d sooner be a landsknecht and go to war with the French.”

  “Where you’d be cutting the throats of children and old women anyway.” Gunther laughed and spat the straw out. “Me, I’d sooner do anything than toil in the fields. What . . . ?”

  He stopped as a crow flew up into the cloudy sky not far from them. Several others followed it, rising from a nearby thicket.

  “I don’t like the look of that,” Gunther said under his breath.

  “It was probably an animal scared them,” said Sebastian, trying to reassure Gunther and himself. “A fox or something.”

  “By God . . . that’s no fox.” His face white as a sheet, Gunther pointed ahead to where the road went around a bend. Several felled fir trees lay there, piled up on each other like a green wall. The carthorses trotted to the barrier and stopped, snorting and pawing the ground with their hooves.

  Gunther’s eyes wandered around in panic. Then he reached for the loaded crossbow lying under the driver’s seat.

  “Those swine,” he groaned.

  At the same time, there was a quick hum, and a feathered arrow buried itself in Sebastian’s thigh.

  “Jesus and Mary!” cried the man-at-arms. “God punish you!” More arrows rained down on the cart. Gunther tried to find a target at which he could aim the crossbow, an enemy that he could kill, but all he saw were the dark fir trees on the other side of the deep-set lane. An arrow hit him in the right hand, another whistled just past his throat. Cursing, he dropped the crossbow, plucked the arrow out of the burning wound, and flung himself off the cart. While more arrows fell around him like hailstones, he climbed the steep slope, bending low as he stumbled toward the nearby wood. Just before he reached the safety of its thickets, another arrow hit his lower leg. Screaming in pain, he fell into a bush and lay there, breathing heavily.

  Meanwhile, Sebastian had drawn his rusty short sword and stood swaying beside the driver’s seat in the cart. Like Gunther, he wore an old hauberk with holes in it, but by now there were three arrows in his legs, and a crossbow bolt had made its way through the metal rings of the shirt. Sebastian was still on his feet, but Gunther knew from experience that most times arrows did not kill at once; instead, the victim bled to death slowly and painfully. Just then another bolt went through the thin hauberk. Sebastian staggered for a moment and then fell off the cart headfirst. He crawled a little way toward the slope and finally lay there, moaning.

  Only now did four men appear on the outskirts of the wood, coming slowly down to the road. The tallest of them held a huge black mastiff on a leash. The dog followed the trail of blood left by Sebastian and licked up a large puddle of it beside the fallen man-at-arms. Gunther recognized the black-haired giant at once.

  Hans von Wertingen.

  The robber knight looked around attentively. He wore a breastplate and a round helmet. His broadsword was so long that it almost dragged over the ground. The other three men were more shabbily dressed. Two of them held longbows, the third was aiming a freshly loaded crossbow at the groaning Sebastian.

  “Leave the poor devil where he is,” Wertingen ordered. “He’s no danger to us now. Anyway, I need him alive a little longer to tell us all he knows. Where’s the other fellow?”

  “Ran into the wood over there,” replied one of his men, pointing to the other side of the road. “But I think we winged him.”

  Wertingen grinned. Then he began undoing the leash from around the dog’s neck. “He won’t get far. My Saskia will soon find him, won’t you, Saskia? Good girl.”

  The enormous mastiff tugged at the leash, growling, and Wertingen had difficulty letting her off it. “Damn it—hold still, will you?” he cursed.

  In the cover of the bush, Gunther froze. It was pointless to try running away with the ar
row in his leg. Furthermore, the mastiff would soon catch up. He thought for a moment, then said a silent prayer and reached for the wound in his leg, which was already bleeding profusely. Gritting his teeth, he passed his hand through the blood and then raked it over his face until it was smeared red all over. Then he lay back as if he were dead.

  Only a moment later, the mastiff appeared behind the bush.

  She barked and bared her long, sharp fangs. But since the prey in front of her did not move, she only lowered her head slowly and sniffed at the motionless body. Gunther felt damp nostrils on his leg, and then a tongue stinking of carrion passed over his cheeks, soiled as they were with blood, dirt, and fir needles. He almost screamed.

  He heard the crunch of footsteps. His eyes were wide open, and he stared blankly at the milky white sky like a corpse.

  Is that the last thing I’ll ever see, he wondered, a bit of cloudy sky?

  “This one’s dead as mutton!” someone called.

  “Are you sure?” Wertingen called back.

  “If not he soon will be.”

  Gunther heard a blade being drawn from its sheath as someone bent over him.

  Oh God, don’t let me die, please don’t let me die . . .

  “If he’s not dead, I’ll eat my hat,” muttered the man above him. “But very well, I’ll help him on his way . . .”

  Gunther was about to jump up to defend his life as long as possible, but the mastiff suddenly began barking wildly and raced into the wood.

  “What’s going on over there?” Hans von Wertingen shouted.

  “It’s Saskia. She must have scented something. She ran after it.”

  “Then go after her, damn it all. Do you know what that animal cost me? If she doesn’t come back, I’ll feed you to her brothers.”

  Cursing to himself, the man moved away. Gunther was still lying on the forest floor. He had already prepared for death, and now God was giving him a second chance. But he wasn’t safe yet. The robber would soon come back, and Gunther dared not slink away. Black Hans and the other two men would be sure to hear him. So he stayed where he was. But he turned his head slightly, so that if he looked through the bushes he could see Wertingen and the severely wounded Sebastian. The robber knight was kneeling beside the guard, feeling under his hauberk with a practiced hand. Triumphantly, he pulled out the purse containing the guilders and the jewelry.

  “There we are,” he announced. “Along with the cart and its load, this will make it a convivial year for us. We’ll have wine, women, and feasting until we’re brimming over.” The other two men laughed, and Wertingen probed the wound in Sebastian’s thigh with the arrow that was sticking in it, making the man-at-arms scream in pain.

  “You can have a quick death or a slow, painful one, my friend,” said Black Hans in a surprisingly kindly voice. “But you’re going to die. You’ve lost too much blood already, as you must know for yourself. So tell me, when does old Erfenstein plan to attack my castle?”

  Gunther suppressed a cry of alarm. So Hans von Wertingen knew about the planned attack. Yet the castellan had imposed strict silence on everyone. Either scouts had found the charcoal kilns in the forest and the metal-casting workshop at Eusserthal and had put two and two together, or . . .

  Or someone at Trifels Castle had been talking.

  “By God, I don’t know when the castellan means to attack you,” Sebastian wailed. “Truly I don’t. Sometime in the summer, when the . . . the weapons are ready.”

  Hans von Wertingen drew his long sword and looked coolly down at the gasping figure of Sebastian. “I promised you a quick death, and as a knight I keep my promises. So go to hell, and give the devil my regards.”

  He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down on the writhing, screaming man-at-arms.

  Gunther turned away as Sebastian’s screams were abruptly silenced. He had seen enough. Tears ran down his face, mingling with the blood on it. He had known Sebastian for many years. When the other man talked big, it sometimes got on his nerves, but they had been almost as close as brothers. Now he couldn’t even bury his body. He would probably molder away beside Sebastian here in the forest.

  The barking of the mastiff could be heard again in the distance, but coming closer.

  “Sounds like Manfred has found my Saskia at last,” commented Wertingen. “Let’s get out of here before those fat guards from Neukastell turn up.”

  His two followers climbed up on the cart behind him, and it began to move away, jolting. A little later the fourth man emerged from the forest, now leading the mastiff on a long leash.

  “Hey, wait for me!” he shouted. “How can I help it if this bitch wants to chase hares?” Then he ran after the cart with the dog, cursing.

  They’ve forgotten about me, thought Gunther. God heard my prayer. They’ve really and truly forgotten about me.

  For a while the squealing of the cart wheels and the sound of the barking dog could still be heard, and then the peaceful silence of the forest reigned again.

  Gunther lay behind the bush, his face smeared with blood, shedding soundless tears.

  Philipp von Erfenstein picked up the glass goblet and flung it against the wall of the Knights’ House at Trifels, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. It was followed by another glass, two copper plates, a roast pheasant, and finally the entire table, carafe of wine and all. The wooden table splintered, and the wine left red channels like blood on the stones of the floor.

  “That bastard!” the castellan bellowed. “That godforsaken bastard! I’ll have his guts, I’ll stick every one of his limbs on the battlements of this castle, I’ll throw his head into the deepest well!” He picked up a stool and was about to throw that at the wall as well, but Agnes intervened.

  “If you carry on like that, we’ll soon have to eat off the bare stone floor.” She cautiously forced her father’s arm down. “Better save your strength for Wertingen’s castle.”

  Erfenstein hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. Breathing heavily, he put the stool back in its place beside the hearth. “You’re right, girl,” he wheezed. “A waste of good wine. But I don’t know whether we’ll be able to storm the Ramburg, now that Black Hans knows our plans.”

  He sat down on the stool again, rubbing his angry face, already bloated with alcohol. His eyes were tired and glazed, and he was still shaking all over. Father Tristan had just brought the injured man-at-arms, Gunther, over to the Knights’ House, where the monk was tending his wounds. In spite of the arrow that had hit him, Gunther had managed to drag himself all the long, sometimes steep way from Neukastell back to Trifels Castle. At first he could hardly speak after his exertions, but finally he told them what had happened to him and Sebastian. The castellan had been perfectly quiet at first. Agnes, who knew her father, recognized that as the calm before the storm. Sure enough, his outburst came some minutes later, when they were both alone in the Knights’ House, and it was all the more violent for that.

  “How did that cowardly dog know about Mathis and the gun, eh?” said Erfenstein so menacingly that his two hounds cringed away into a corner, whimpering. “And he also knew my two men-at-arms were secretly on their way to Neukastell, and he knew about the money. Someone must have given us away.”

  “He may have known about the gun anyway,” Agnes replied reassuringly. “The smoke from the furnace could be seen for miles around. But it’s certainly odd that Wertingen knew the exact time the cart would be passing, and what the men had with them.” She frowned, but however hard she tried, she could think of no possible betrayer.

  “Curse it, how am I to pay what I owe the duke now?” the castellan complained, his shoulders drooping. All the anger seemed to have drained away from him, like air from a pig’s bladder. “I’ve squeezed all I can out of my peasants. They have nothing left to give. And the ducal steward couldn’t care less. Rupprecht and I were friends once, but he doesn’t let that trouble him when there’s money at stake.” The castellan ran his hand through his hair. “Th
is is the end, Agnes. They’ll finally take Trifels away from me now.”

  “No one will take Trifels away from you, Father,” Agnes said. She went to sit beside him, and took his shaking hand. “Not yet. I’ve looked in the accounts. We still have a little saved up. If we sell Mother’s jewelry, Lohingen may be content with that as an installment.”

  “Oh, Agnes, your mother’s jewelry was already in the stolen purse with the money. And twice its worth wouldn’t have been enough.” Erfenstein shook his head, sighing. “What’s more, we need money not just for Lohingen but for Mathis too, so that he can finish making that damn gun. We can melt down all the metal we can find, but sulfur still costs money, and there are other costs as well. Now the lad needs lead, and twenty feet of rope for fuses from the ropemaker in Annweiler.” He laughed mirthlessly. “It’s enough to drive me crazy, Agnes. Either I admit defeat to the duke’s steward and lose the castle, or I can’t arm us well enough, I lose the battle against Hans von Wertingen, and I lose Trifels all the same. I have no other choice.”

  Agnes thought for a while. “Then borrow the money,” she said at last.

  Erfenstein’s large figure seemed to shrink as he sat on his stool. “Who from? The other knights in these parts aren’t much better off themselves, and I’m not bowing and scraping to that young upstart Scharfeneck anymore, by God. I’d sooner go around in sackcloth and ashes.”

  “You know some merchants in Speyer. They have plenty of money.” Agnes shrugged. “I’m sure they’d lend you something. If necessary, you can pay them back a little more than you borrowed.”

  “A little more?” Erfenstein sighed. “The interest they charge is outrageous. It was better to borrow from the Jews before those poor fellows were driven out. And you yourself don’t believe the merchants of Speyer will lend me money at no interest, out of love of their neighbor, just to help me out of trouble. Why would they? They’d get nothing out of the deal, unless . . .” Suddenly the castellan stopped. Deep lines showed on his forehead as he scrutinized his daughter thoughtfully. “Well, why not?” Erfenstein murmured at last. “It might work.”