Agnes would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious. She was about to turn the idea down again, but then she hesitated. The minstrel could indeed be a useful companion. He had traveled widely and knew the world. Furthermore, he had already shown that, in spite of his apparent fragility, he was a good swordsman. They could certainly do with a man like that on their long journey through a country in turmoil. The only question was what Mathis would say if she let someone else into the secret of their plans.
Melchior was still standing in front of her with his hand on his breast, waiting. Finally, shrugging, Agnes gave in.
“Very well, then,” she said. “You may come with me and my two friends on our travels, but you must swear not to tell a soul about it.” Agnes thought, once again, of Father Tristan’s last words.
The midwife Elsbeth Rechsteiner told me that they were after you . . .
“There may be someone following us,” she went on quietly. “Although I don’t know who, or why. So you must keep quiet.”
Horrified, Melchior raised his eyebrows. “You are addressing a knight, my lady. I would not give the secret away, even under torture.”
“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said gloomily. “Now, quick, before my husband comes back. If he finds us here, with all those clothes lying on the floor, he might draw the wrong conclusions, and I wouldn’t like that.”
Agnes threw the sack to the little minstrel and hurried to the door. In passing, Melchior picked up a winter coat trimmed with ermine and strode after her with his chest proudly thrust out, while the sword at his side clinked quietly in its sheath.
As they hurried over the castle courtyard in the evening twilight, Agnes stopped suddenly. “One moment,” she said to Melchior. “I . . . there’s someone I have to say goodbye to.”
She left the surprised minstrel behind and went over to a corner of the courtyard where a small aviary stood in the shade. Her falcon, Parcival, was sitting on a perch, his head hidden by his leather hood. Carefully, she took it off, and the falcon fluttered excitedly up and down, making the little silver chain on his foot jingle. As the molting season began, his tail feathers were looking worn, getting ready to drop out.
“Parcival,” Agnes whispered, stroking his head. “I’m afraid I must leave you. I am so sorry, but you can’t come with me.”
She had briefly considered taking the falcon and her horse, Taramis, but she would have been too conspicuous with the stately chestnut and trained falcon. So she had decided on another solution.
Hesitating for a moment, she undid the chain from the falcon’s foot and opened the aviary door.
“Fly away, Parcival, fly away,” she said softly. “There are mice and rabbits waiting for you out there, and I’m sure you’ll find a pretty lady falcon as well. Al reveire!”
The bird tripped back and forth on his perch, and finally spread his wings and flew out into the courtyard. For a moment he settled on the battlements, then he rose high in the air with a shrill cry. He circled above the castle several times, almost as if he were saying his own goodbye, and finally flew away west, toward the setting sun.
Out in the forest, hidden behind a bramble bush, a crooked figure glowered, his eyes full of hatred for the two men who seemed to be waiting for something by the rockface below Scharfenberg Castle.
The hunchback cursed quietly. What, damn it all, were those two doing? Whatever it was, now was the time to close the trap, before he froze to death. Impatiently, Shepherd Jockel rubbed his cold hands and looked around for his men lurking in the brushwood behind him, awaiting his orders. That outspoken young smith would be sorry yet for making a fool of him in front of everyone. Oh yes, Mathis was going to be sorry—very, very sorry.
The peasants had followed the fugitives over the hills since midday. But at some point they had lost track of them in the forest. At first, Jockel had been furious, but then it struck him that he knew where at least one of the three must be going. Finally he had posted men outside Scharfenberg, although he assumed that the castellan’s daughter would go straight to the main gate of the castle, rather than taking the steep approach along the northern flank. As a result, they had almost arrived too late.
But the peasants had been lucky; one of the men posted to keep watch had spotted the fugitives at the last minute. And now Mathis and that fool Reichhart were simply standing here in the snow, like a couple of stags flushed out of cover. But stupidly, they had let that spoiled girl slip through their fingers.
Jockel was about to give the order to attack, when suddenly two more figures appeared by the rockface. Where had they come from? Shepherd Jockel looked more closely. One was a small, delicately built man, dressed like a member of the minor aristocracy, with a sack slung over his shoulder, and the other . . .
The countess.
Jockel put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The stupid woman had actually left the shelter of her castle, thus showing him another way into it. There must be a hidden door in the rock. Now he had them all in his trap.
Curiously, Jockel scrutinized the man with the sack as he approached Mathis and old Reichhart. There were a couple of conversations conducted in an undertone, and finally the castellan’s daughter took items of warm clothing out of the sack and gave them to the others in the party. Jockel grinned as he realized what was going on. Clearly the lady had tired of her castle, maybe the fop beside her was her lover, or maybe her husband had simply sent her packing—although with her tumbling blonde hair, her small, full breasts, and her well-formed figure, she really was a very attractive sight.
That gave Jockel an idea as wicked as it was brilliant. A thin, diabolical smile flitted over his lips. Sometimes his own intellect surprised him. Only Mathis could sometimes compete with him. The young man was cunning, and popular with the men. It would have been risky to strike him down in front of all eyes. But now he could dispose of the ambitious young fellow neatly, at the same time avenging himself on the young noblewoman—and in a way that would provide material for talk beside the insurgents’ campfires for a long while to come.
No doubt about it; Jockel was a born leader.
“What now, sir?” asked Paulus impatiently. “Do we fall on them?”
The former vagrant had a bandage around his head where Reichhart had hit him with the flat of his sword blade. His eyes glittered with hatred and anger in the dim light. Jockel liked to hear Paulus calling him “sir,” as though he were a knight or a count.
Shepherd Jockel shook his head. “I have a much better idea. You know the village of Rinnthal, not far from here?”
When Paulus nodded too slowly, Jockel went on, “There are a few shady characters there. Pimps and procurers they are, on their way to Strasbourg. They’re looking out for pretty peasant girls eating their parents out of house and home in these hard times.”
Paulus twisted his mouth into a grin as he finally understood. “You mean we can offer them something better than a peasant girl?”
“Oh yes, much better. A real countess.” Jockel winked at him. “And in return they’ll get rid of Mathis and the other two idiots for us. We won’t even have to soil our hands.” He nudged Paulus, who chuckled. “And now hurry up, before the golden goose flies away.”
When the vagrant had disappeared, Jockel stared at Scharfenberg Castle thoughtfully for some time longer. It towered above him, and until now it had looked to him impregnable. The hunchbacked peasant leader grinned. The men from Dahn and Wilgartswiesen would soon be here. He would be able to offer them a monastery as an army camp, and a way into a fortress as well. Together they would storm Scharfenberg Castle. Trifels would follow, then Annweiler and the other towns and villages all the way down to the Rhine.
And there was no doubt who would be the leader of their large and ever-growing band.
Accompanied by the steady rushing sound of the river Queich, Agnes and the three men walked on toward the little village of Albersweiler, a few miles east of Annweiler. They
had been on their way for over an hour now, and it was late at night, but the moon shone so brightly that they could easily see where they were going.
After some thought, they had decided to leave the part of the country that owed allegiance to the Löwenstein-Scharfenecks behind them as quickly as possible. Agnes was under no illusions. By now her husband would certainly be home. When he failed to find his wife and the minstrel at the castle, he would be suspicious, and the missing garments and stolen money would soon put him on the right track. So they must move quickly.
Mathis and Ulrich Reichhart went ahead on the towpath beside the river. The old master gunner kept his hand on the hilt of his sword and looked keenly around him as they walked on. Meanwhile, Mathis had cut himself a cudgel and was listlessly swinging it in the air as a little boy might. Agnes could not suppress a small smile. Since she had explained to Mathis that Melchior von Tanningen was going to be their companion, he had hardly said anything, apart from grumbling a few brief comments. It was almost as if he was jealous.
“And the dreams really began only once you had this ring?” the minstrel beside her asked. Agnes had decided to tell Melchior about her dreams, the ring, and the mysterious missing chapter torn out of the chronicle of Trifels. Since then he had been all enthusiasm. It was like he had finally found the dramatic tale that he had long been searching for. He had touched the ring on its chain around her neck, his eyes shining, and murmured something about a new Holy Grail.
“The dreams came only when I was at Trifels Castle,” said Agnes. “Then they suddenly went away. Almost as though the castle itself were sending them to me.” She shook her head. “But of course that’s nonsense. It’s probably just that Trifels sets my imagination working. That is what Father Tristan always used to say. All the same, it’s strange. I saw in dreams everything that Johann and Constanza experienced at Trifels: their first meeting, when Johann was dubbed a knight; their wedding; their first concerns about the ring; the planned assassination; their flight with the child . . . I can’t see what happened after that.”
“The chronicle said that Johann of Brunswick, the Guelph, led a conspiracy against the Habsburgs, and died in flight when it failed,” Melchior pointed out. “Maybe Constanza was also killed by the king’s assassins.”
Agnes shrugged. “We don’t know what the chronicle said, because Father Tristan tore out those pages. But why? What did it say that no one was supposed to read?”
“A secret that we’ll have to work out in that distant monastery on the Rhine. Ah, I love secrets! They are the bricks of every ballad.” Melchior plucked his lute and struck a couple of chords. Then he sang a song in his soft tenor voice, hesitating briefly now and then as he tried to find the right words.
A noble maid, both proud and fine,
With friends went to the river Rhine.
They sought the canons who might know
What happened many years ago,
At Trifels. How it was a pair
Of lovers were united there,
Although in death. She had a ring
From fair Constanza, as I sing.
It sent her many a troubled dream . . .
Humming to himself, Melchior thought about the next line. Agnes looked at him in amazement.
“Did you make that up just now?”
The minstrel shrugged. “Well, it needs to be revised and polished, but it will do for a start . . .” He smiled. “Do you like it? I told you about the singers’ contest at the Wartburg, and I think I now know what ballad I’d like to perform there.” He plucked a couple of strings in a theatrical manner. “This song of mine will take the world by storm.”
“But first and foremost it’s likely to cost us our lives,” Mathis interrupted. “If you carry on singing like that, we might as well ask out loud to be attacked. Maybe it’s slipped your mind, Master Minstrel, but there are about a hundred peasants on our trail, as well as a very angry count.”
“I’m sorry, you are right.” Melchior shouldered his lute again, sighing deeply. “Where good stories are concerned, I can’t restrain myself. Especially when the story is about love and death.”
“You may soon be better acquainted with the latter than you like,” remarked Mathis. “We must just hope that the count hasn’t sent his mounted landsknechts in pursuit yet. They’ll soon catch up with us on horseback.”
“I think I have an idea,” Ulrich Reichhart put in, turning to the others. “We’re certainly going too slowly on Shanks’s pony, but in a boat it would be different. Not far after Albersweiler the Queich flows fast, particularly at this time of year. Traveling by water, we’d reach the Rhine before we knew it.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Mathis said. “And where are we going to find a boat in the middle of the night?”
Reichhart grinned. “With enough money, you can even buy a galley in the Wasgau if you need one. There’s a stone quarry just before we reach Albersweiler, and a tavern on the little river harbor. We’ll roust the host out of bed and buy the fastest boat we can get.” He looked up at the starry sky. “It’s nearly full moon, so we can travel by night as well as day. What do you think?”
“A good notion.” Agnes clapped her hands. “We could reach the Rhine by sunrise. And maybe the landlord could give us a sup of hot, spiced wine.” Shivering, she pulled her husband’s warm felt coat around her shoulders. In her hose, and a broad-brimmed slouch hat under which she had stuffed her unmanageable hair, she did indeed look like a young craftsman on his travels, although the coat seemed a little too expensive for that.
“Then let’s get this part of the forest behind us,” grunted Mathis. “Before the minstrel starts singing again.”
Ulrich Reichhart’s suggestion, and the prospect of some wine, made all four of them walk faster. The towpath continued along the bank of the river Queich. They soon passed a stone marking the border, telling them that they had finally left the county of the Löwenstein-Scharfenecks.
Agnes felt a curious relief, almost as if she had broken out of a magical charmed circle. She gave herself a little shake and then marched on. Once, she thought she saw a scurrying movement behind the branches of the trees, perhaps some large animal, but then deep silence fell again, broken only by Melchior’s steady humming.
At last the pit of the Albersweiler stone quarry appeared on their left. A broad road led from it to the harbor, where stone was loaded into barges to go down to the plain of the Rhine. There were still lights on behind the thick glass windows of the harbor tavern, and smoke rose from its chimney, so obviously someone was still awake.
“Mmm, I smell roast wild boar, do you?” said Ulrich Reichhart. “Maybe we can take a few slices with us. And some good white bread, and a little cask of beer.”
He opened the tavern door and raised his hand in greeting. Sure enough, late as it was there were still some guests at the inn. The landlord stood behind the counter, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger at his leisure. He looked up for a moment as the new arrivals entered the room.
“Still out and about so late?” the landlord asked, with a thin smile. “I’m afraid we have no beds left.”
“Thanks, but we don’t need a place to sleep,” Mathis replied. “We’re looking to buy a boat, that’s all.”
“And a mug of hot honey wine and a few slices of roast meat would go down well, too,” Reichhart said, glancing hungrily at the table where the guests were sitting.
“A boat, eh?” The landlord drove his dagger into the table, where it stuck, quivering. “How much money do you have with you?”
“Enough for a ramshackle barge like yours out there,” Agnes said. It occurred to her, too late, that her voice sounded far too high to be a man’s. The landlord at the counter looked her suspiciously up and down.
“Boats are expensive hereabouts,” he finally replied, pushing the hilt of his dagger so that it began to vibrate. “Especially for folk who arrive by night and are in a hurry.”
Agnes looked more closely at the man. He had s
haggy black hair, and an equally shaggy beard. His skin was dark brown, almost burned, like he spent a great deal of time out in the sun. Only now did it strike her that he spoke a strange dialect and did not seem to come from these parts.
The guests at the table also made a curious impression. There were four strong fellows, with slouch hats and scarred faces. With them sat a young girl, her eyes moving restlessly back and forth, terrified. A tense silence fell, almost physically present. Agnes felt the little hairs on the back of her neck slowly rising.
There’s something wrong here . . .
The girl’s eyes slowly moved to the counter. In the dim light, something could be seen sticking out from under it, on the right-hand side where a man would move to stand behind the bar.
Two feet, with a pool of bright blood around them.
At the same moment a shrill cry came from the counter. Turning her head, Agnes saw a monster that seemed to come straight out of her nightmares. A small, hairy demon perched on the bar, its mouth open and hissing. Sharp teeth stuck out of that mouth, and the monster had a face like a tiny copy of a wizened old man’s. Red button eyes flashed angrily at Agnes, and then the demon gathered itself to spring.
“Damn you, Satan, stay here,” the landlord scolded. He tugged at a thin chain, whereupon the demon, spitting, hopped up on his shoulder. Confused, Agnes looked from the little devil down to the pool of blood on the floor, and back again. When the landlord noticed her glance, he growled angrily, like a wolf.
“Kill those three fools, but leave the pretty countess to me.”
For a moment time seemed to stand still. Then Agnes heard the sound of steel drawn from its sheath, and Melchior von Tanningen stormed toward the group at the table with his sword in hand. The men jumped to their feet. Roast meat, plates, and wineglasses crashed to the floor. The girl cried out and flinched aside as the strangers drew their own swords.
The Castle of Kings Page 43
