The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  She stared into the darkness, one last time, then finally tore herself away and raced up the steps. At the top she stumbled, fell full length, and scrambled up again. With the last of her strength, she ran along the central nave and out into the open air. At once the sense of oppression went away. Pilgrims passing nearby looked at her curiously.

  Agnes looked down at herself. Her dress was dirty, and there was a tear in one place. Pale and trembling, she was a sorry sight. She leaned against the cathedral font, exhausted, and waited for her breathing to calm down. Could someone really have been watching her? Could that someone have called her name? Cautiously, she looked around, but apart from a couple of old women and some beggars, there was no one close to her. In retrospect, the whispering seemed to her strangely unreal.

  Agnes shook her head and tried to dismiss the entire incident as one of her bad dreams. Maybe she really was a little feverish. And heaven knew she had enough difficulties already. All at once it occurred to her that her father would surely be waiting for her by now. She straightened up and hurried back through the market to the mint, which already looked less crowded than before. Only a few merchants still stood around the building, while the stream of water in the middle of the street carried away the stinking refuse of a long day.

  Agnes was about to go up to the second floor when she saw her father. He was sitting on a stone bench under the arcades. At first she hardly recognized him. He was sitting hunched up, like a lonely old man, staring straight ahead as he ran his fingers through his hair and his beard. He looked worn out. Agnes cautiously approached him.

  “Did Jakob Gutknecht . . .” she began quietly, but her father just shook his head.

  “The deal is off.”

  Agnes felt weak at the knees. She sat down beside her father, not sure whether to shed tears or feel glad.

  “Father . . .” she stammered. “I . . . I’m so sorry. I never ought to have . . .”

  Erfenstein dismissed that. “It wasn’t your outspoken remarks. Or at least, they didn’t decide it. It was the money. Gutknecht wouldn’t have insisted on a dowry, but when he heard how little we own, when I showed him the papers, the meager yield of our fief, then . . . then . . .” The castellan’s voice failed him. “Then he laughed,” he said at last. “That bastard laughed at me—a knight! If I’d brought my sword, I’d have struck him down like a rabid dog.” He shook his head, and Agnes thought she saw new gray hairs in his once thick black mane. “What have we come to, Agnes?” he asked wearily. “What have we come to, for a merchant to laugh at a knight?”

  “Times have changed, Father.” Agnes took his hand and held it tightly. “So what now?” she asked, after a few minutes of silence.

  “What do you think?” The castellan stood up, groaning. “We’ll go and borrow money from the wool merchants. One of them promised me credit not long ago. At an exorbitant rate of interest. And unless a miracle happens, I won’t be able to pay my debts next year, and I’ll be leaving Trifels Castle. But at least I still have you.” He turned to Agnes, and gave her a long, loving look. “How could I ever have thought of selling my little bird to a moneybags like that?” he said quietly. “I’d sooner jump from the tallest tower of Trifels than let one of those upstart Speyer patricians have you.”

  In silence, he walked away over the marketplace. Agnes hurried after him. At that moment, she wasn’t sure how seriously her father had meant that last remark.

  The journey back to Trifels the next day was a silent one. Philipp von Erfenstein brooded, while Agnes alternated between anxiety and relief. She wasn’t going to marry a merchant in Speyer. At least for the moment, she could give herself up to the illusion that everything was the same as before. But she knew the day would soon come when her father looked for another husband for her. And it wouldn’t be Mathis.

  For a while Agnes occupied her mind by wondering who could have been lying in wait for her in the cathedral crypt. But then she decided that she had merely imagined her pursuer, and above all that voice. So she thought it better to keep her father’s spirits up by asking him about old battles, and the tournaments in which he had once fought. That at least cheered Erfenstein a little.

  They were going to ride back by way of Eusserthal, because the castellan had fallen out with the monastery some time ago over a small wood to which both parties laid claim. It was time to settle the quarrel in a conversation with the abbot, although Agnes feared that her father was not in the mood for a constructive discussion.

  As the two of them approached the monastery at last, they could smell coal and slag from some way off, and a thin black thread of smoke was rising to the cloudless sky from the metal-casting workshop. Since the beginning of May, and with the help of the castle’s men-at-arms, Mathis had put the weapons of the Trifels arsenal into good order and had even made some new ones. But his most impressive work was the mighty cannon that, at over a ton in weight, would be too heavy to be moved except on the gun carriage that would be specially made for it. Next to the workshop containing the furnaces the men had put up a wooden storage shed, where Mathis was filing rust away from the old arquebuses, while Reichhart stood beside him.

  When the two of them saw Agnes and the castellan coming, they bowed deeply.

  “Good to see you back, sir,” Ulrich Reichhart excitedly greeted his master. Since he had been working with Mathis, he seemed years younger and much livelier than before. “The great gun to breach Wertingen’s walls is taking shape,” he went on. “We’re even making some smaller firearms. It’s all going according to plan. We’ll soon be able to attack his castle. All we really need to do now is—”

  “Tell me about it this evening, Ulrich,” the castellan interrupted him. “I’m too tired now. And I have to talk to the abbot. Let’s hope the monks here at least have a decent drop of wine.”

  Without another word, he turned his horse and trotted toward the entrance of the monastery. Ulrich Reichhart’s jaw dropped.

  “What’s the matter with the old man?” he said at last. “He watches every little thing we do for weeks on end, and suddenly he’s not interested in the work anymore.”

  “He’s worried,” replied Agnes gently. “It’s because of money. All we managed to do in Speyer was borrow at too high a rate of interest. And now he’s afraid the duke’s steward will take Trifels Castle from him.”

  “Then we’d better get on with attacking Wertingen,” Reichhart rubbed his hands. “My fingers are already itching to smoke out that bastard. What’s more, we’ll soon be ready, and—”

  “Nothing’s ready!” Mathis interrupted roughly. So far he had gone on with his work in silence, and without so much as a glance for Agnes. When he looked up, she could tell that he had been sleeping poorly. His face was pale, and he had dark rings around his eyes. “I’m still finishing the gun carriage for the big cannon,” he said. “And we don’t have nearly enough saltpeter for the gunpowder, although we’ve cleared out all the local privies.”

  “Gunther and Eberhart are on their way to Dahn,” Reichhart said soothingly. “There’s said to be plenty still there. I’m sure we’ll have enough saltpeter next week.” He grinned and nudged Mathis in the ribs. “I know what it is—you’re never satisfied anyway. If you had your way, we’d still be filing the muzzles of the guns next winter.”

  “Nonsense!” Mathis snorted.

  Turning away, he went over to the furnace and began stirring it up, scraping sticky remnants of slag out of the great melting pot. Agnes watched him thoughtfully. He seemed to have something on his mind.

  A movement of her head told the master gunner to leave them. She did not speak directly to Mathis until Ulrich Reichhart had disappeared behind the newly built storage shed. Then she asked, “What’s the matter with you? It’s not the work making you so tired and quiet, is it, but something else?”

  Mathis put another log on the fire in the furnace. Then he straightened up and nodded. “It’s my father,” he began unsteadily. “I . . . I don’t think he can l
ive much longer. His cough gets worse every day, he’s always bringing up blood . . .” His voice died away.

  Agnes took his callused hand, which was black with ashes and slag. “You must talk to him,” she said softly. “End your quarrel. Right away, before it’s too late.”

  Mathis laughed bitterly. “How can I? He’s so obstinate he won’t even look at me. As he sees it, what I’m doing here is a betrayal of our whole profession. But who needs swords and spear points now that there are guns? However, he thinks I’ve sold my soul to the devil. Sometimes I almost believe it myself.” His face darkened. “Do you remember how the arquebus blew the body of Wertingen’s vassal to bits? Maybe God doesn’t want us playing with this kind of fire.”

  Agnes sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late for such doubts now. If we don’t conquer Wertingen’s castle, my father will certainly lose Trifels, and then there are his debts. And you will lose your job here. Maybe you ought to tell your father that.”

  “I’ll try.” Mathis was looking into space. Only after a while did he glance at Agnes again. “Old Ulrich Reichhart is right,” he said at last, hesitantly. “The longer we wait, the greater the danger of Black Hans arming his men against us. He probably knows just what we plan to do. Gunther has mentioned a great many tracks left around here. They were probably made by Wertingen’s men.”

  All at once Agnes remembered the lights below Scharfenberg Castle that they had seen a few weeks ago. Could they have been left by Wertingen’s spies? And could it have been one of his men in Speyer Cathedral, trying to find out what she and her father were doing?

  “What’s more, it will soon be summer,” Mathis went on in a firmer voice, bringing her back from her thoughts. “At that season, Wertingen can’t count on his peasants. They’re fully occupied working in the fields; even the offer of money won’t induce them to help him defend the castle.” He nodded. “We really ought to attack, if possible, in the next few days . . . Damn it! Why did that poor devil Sebastian have to give away our plan, on top of everything else? Well, we’ll have to make do with less saltpeter. And my father . . .” He did not finish his sentence. Lost in thought, he wiped his hands on his apron and then strode over to the storage shed beside the workshop.

  “I’ll begin mixing the gunpowder today,” he called back to Agnes. “Tell your father we can make our move in three days’ time. That’s if I don’t blow myself to kingdom come first.” It was meant as a joke, but Agnes detected a touch of fear in Mathis’s voice.

  She wearily closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the sky overhead was still as clear and blue as before, but suddenly there seemed to be something menacing in the shimmering heat. Like the kind of thunderstorm that can be felt long before it finally breaks.

  War was coming.

  Not far from the little hamlet of Ranschbach, a small stream ran through a woodland clearing, flowed over a rocky projection, and cascaded down into a pool that reflected the rising moon. The splashing sound was monotonous and peaceful, and for a while at least it drowned out the crunch of footsteps coming closer, along a hidden game trail.

  The old man led the way. In accordance with the order’s ancient laws, he wore the graying cloak with the coat of arms showing three lions rampant. Groaning, he sat down on a rock and waited for the others. He had meant to hand off his post as leader to someone younger by now, but then the first rumors of the enemy began to circulate, and he had decided to stay on. There was one last task for him, and he hoped that he could still perform it.

  And what happens after that, God alone knows.

  There were more footsteps. They were those of Diethelm Seebach, arriving from Annweiler with the ropemaker Martin Lebrecht. The old man surreptitiously scrutinized them both. Since the strangers had found the keeper of the ring, suspicion had been smoldering in him like the embers of a fire that never really went out. Could it really be true that one of their order had given them away? There were twelve of them, just as there had been twelve Apostles, and one of the Apostles had also been a traitor.

  Who is the Judas among us, or did those men really come upon Elsbeth entirely by chance?

  In silence, the head of the order nodded to the two new arrivals, and they waited together for the remaining nine. The midwife Elsbeth Rechsteiner was the last to appear. She carried her satchel, in which she had already stowed several herbs that she had picked. The moon was in a favorable phase. Smiling, the old man glanced at her. Elsbeth had always been especially dear to him among the members of their order; they had known one another for so many years. Indeed, years ago they had even been lovers. The old man remembered many delightful dances at festivals commemorating the consecration of the church—and many nights in the hay. Now Elsbeth’s back was bent, and her legs seemed to be giving her pain again. Over the last few weeks, her hair had become as white as snow. The old man sadly shook his head. He too had aged even more in all the anxiety of recent months.

  How could you have done such a thing to us, Elsbeth? A bird as keeper of the ring . . . It is high time to act.

  The head of their little order looked intently at each individual member in turn, and then he began to speak.

  “I am sorry I had to ask you to come here at this late hour,” he said quietly, “but the church is no longer safe enough. We know from a reliable source that the enemy has been questioning the mayor of Annweiler, and who knows how much our pastor knows of what’s afoot? We can trust no one now, not even each other.” He paused, and looked at the brothers and sisters again. They all wore dark cloaks and hoods so that they would not attract attention at night on the road or in the forest. He hoped none of them had been followed.

  But he could not be sure that an enemy was not already here among them.

  “The ring is gone. There’s no help for that now,” he went on. “But we still have the deed. You know that, as our senior member, I keep it in a safe place. Today I have brought it here to show you.”

  Putting his hand under his doublet, he brought out a crumpled scroll of parchment. The scratched seal on it showed the portrait of a bearded man. The parchment itself was stained, and torn at the edges. It looked old, very old. When the head of the order held it up, a murmur ran around the forest clearing. Some of the members knelt down and made the sign of the cross.

  The leader carefully put the parchment back under his doublet, and then he cleared his throat.

  “I have decided to take the deed away,” he said. “Tomorrow. It is no longer safe here.”

  There was anxious whispering, and some of the members shook their heads.

  “But then there is no more point in our order,” Martin Lebrecht said at last. “It has been our task to protect the deed. Have you forgotten that? The deed and the ring. If you give them away, then that’s the end of the Brotherhood. You said so yourself.” And he repeated the prayerlike prophesy that they had been passing down for centuries. “When ravens no longer circle above the castle, and the empire is in danger, when the eagle drives all evil things away and the dwarfs speak his name—”

  “And suppose that day has now come?” Elsbeth Rechsteiner suddenly interrupted him. Several members of the order looked at her in alarm.

  “What do you mean?” asked their leader.

  “Danger threatens the German Empire from all quarters. It’s said that the French could invade at any time, even here in the Palatinate, and there’s war in all the Italian cities already. The peasants are suffering starvation and they rebel against all the many injustices, and not a few regard Martin Luther as a new savior.” Her voice became steadier, and she straightened her shoulders. “Maybe this is the time of which our founding fathers spoke. The end of the world as we know it. Knights are disappearing, fire and the sword lay waste their castles. Perhaps it is time for the secret to be made known at last.” The old midwife looked around at her fellow members of the order. “Isn’t that our task? To keep it until the time is ripe? I tell you, the time is ripe now—indeed, more than ripe. And if we do not act
, our enemies will do so ahead of us.”

  Once again a murmur went around the clearing. Many of those present were talking quietly, others were praying aloud.

  “Silence, brothers and sisters! Silence!” Their old leader raised his hand and waited until all was quiet again at last. Somewhere, a nightingale trilled.

  “Elsbeth may be right,” he finally said in a measured tone. “The founders of this order, long ago, did not tell us how to know when the time had really come. The signs and omens are . . . well, extremely vague. It is for us to interpret them. But even if the right time has not come yet, I can no longer guarantee the safety of the deed.” He paused and looked gravely at each member in turn. Only then did he go on. “I therefore suggest that we take the deed to a place that is truly secure. And I know of such a place. The monks there have been guarding the knowledge of the empire for nearly a thousand years. Our secret will be safe with them.”

  “And suppose the document goes on gathering dust there for another thousand years?” Diethelm Seebach inquired skeptically. “How are those monks to know when the time has come if even we don’t?”

  “For God’s sake, you’ve heard how close on our heels these men are,” the head of the order argued. “And you know the diabolical skill they bring to their work. We are simple craftsmen and peasants, Diethelm. Not knights in shining armor who could take on such a pack in battle.” He shook his head. “Our founders never foresaw this. We must get the deed to safety, and as soon as possible.”

  “So where are you going to take it?” Martin Lebrecht asked.

  The old man’s face was hard as stone. “Only I and Elsbeth, as the former keeper of the ring, should know. For the time being, that is the safest way,” he said firmly. “I can’t vouch that we don’t have a traitor in our ranks. Can you, Martin?” When there was no answer, the old man turned to those standing around him. “Those who agree with me, raise their hands.”