The Castle of Kings
Page 47
The landsknecht roared with laughter. “Not a good notion to travel in times like these, not a good notion at all. Didn’t I just tell you? The land’s laid waste, villages are burning. Only a fool would travel now—there’s nothing but death waiting on the road.”
At that moment one of the parrots screeched. “The pope is a glutton! The pope is a glutton!” The other bird joined in. “Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!”
The astonished soldier looked suspiciously at Barnabas. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“Only my talking birds.” Barnabas managed to smile at him. “We’re a company of traveling entertainers. I have a monkey as well.”
“Entertainers, with a monkey?” The landsknecht, enthusiastic now, looked at his comrades, who were about to move on. “Did you hear that? We could use them in the baggage train, right? The men like something to laugh at, after all the killing. And I see you have women too. Pretty women, at that.”
His lascivious eyes lingered on Agnes, who was still beside the rail of the boat, observing the conversation. Meanwhile, Barnabas seemed to be thinking.
“Thanks,” he finally called to the soldiers. “I’ll think over your proposition.”
“Do that. And remember, where we go there’s loot. And women, wine, and gold. We thrash the whereabouts of those saucy peasants’ money out of them and then hang them from the nearest tree.”
Laughing, he beat his drum again and moved away with the procession as it rolled over the bridge like an army of ants. Barnabas stayed where he was for some time. Finally he turned to his men and the two captives, and twirled his black beard.
“You heard what he said,” he announced in the tone of one used to giving orders. “The journey through the Black Forest is too dangerous. I’m not risking my life for a couple of savages hoping for an intact delivery. Particularly not when there’s a better opportunity.” He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “We’ll go north with this baggage train. When the unrest dies down we can always go along the Danube and do business there. Until then, let’s go where fate casts us up.” Barnabas raised his head, sniffing the air like a dog. It smelled of burning torches, gunpowder, and horse dung. “I smell money, plenty of money. Unpack the crates, men, and let’s steal a cart. We’ll go along with the war.”
When Mathis and Melchior reached the gates of Strasbourg, the city was pure pandemonium. The streets were crowded with fugitives who seemed to come from all over Alsace. There were many monks and Catholic priests among them, but also prosperous citizens with all their worldly goods in rucksacks or on handcarts. Babies were crying, small children whining for their parents, barkers and peddlers taking advantage of the crowds to offer their wares at greatly inflated prices.
During the last few days, the two men had ridden so fast that their horses were going lame. They had finally sold the animals to hungry landsknechts and came the last twenty miles on foot. The countryside through which they traveled was in turmoil. At first only the peasants of Upper Alsace and the Sundgau had risen, but soon the whole western side of the Rhine was on fire. The simple folk were now taking up arms in neighboring Lorraine as well. Their joint leader was a man called Erasmus Gerber, a craftsman who had unified the separate and sometimes conflicting bands and had many supporters in Strasbourg itself.
Melchior was just back from one of the many harbor taverns that lay on the Ill, a tributary of the Rhine. The minstrel, looking discouraged, shook his head. They had already tried a dozen inns, asking in vain if anyone had seen a group of entertainers with a monkey on their way to the Black Forest. They had also questioned beggars and pickpockets in the streets and had visited raftsmen, brothel keepers, and ferrymen, but so far with no success at all.
“I think we’d better try Kehl, on the other bank of the river,” said Melchior, as they walked through Strasbourg’s stinking tanners’ quarter. “Maybe the fellows set off from there just before we arrived, leaving Strasbourg behind.”
“If they ever came to Strasbourg at all,” said Mathis, gloomily. His leg had healed up well in the last few days, leaving him with only a slight limp. But doubts still tormented him. Had Agnes and her companions really gone upstream along the Rhine?
They crossed the forecourt of the minster, which marked the center of the city. The cathedral was so enormous that for a moment Mathis forgot his troubles and looked up, marveling at the towers, the crooked rooftops, the figures of saints, and above all the gargoyles who seemed to mock him with their grimaces. He had heard that the minster now belonged to the Lutherans, who had established themselves in Strasbourg very early. The city was one of the spiritual centers of the German Empire; maybe the revolution would spread from here all over the country. But when Mathis saw all the weeping, wailing fugitives streaming toward the city gates, he doubted whether the peasants were going about it the right way.
Good never comes of evil, he thought.
They left Strasbourg and went toward the Rhine down a broad road that was spanned by a mighty bridge at this point. Handcarts and horse-drawn wagons came to meet them, and more and more often they saw people who wore bandages drenched with blood, or who had to be carried on stretchers. One-legged soldiers and beggars with horribly scarred faces held out their hands to Mathis and Melchior.
The scene was far pleasanter in Kehl. The gentle foothills of the Black Forest reached far to the east; barges and rafts rocked in the water by the bank, ready to go on along the little river Kinzig. There were a couple of taverns but, here again, no one had heard of a troupe of entertainers.
Discouraged, the two men sat down at last on a dock and dangled their bare feet in the cool water that washed away the dirt of the last few days and soothed the cracked skin and blisters that had developed as they walked the final miles.
“It’s just as I said,” Mathis sighed. “We’ve finally lost the trail.”
Melchior von Tanningen said nothing, but Mathis could tell that his mind was hard at work. Empty-eyed, the minstrel gazed at the water as he bit his lower lip. Melchior had proved a valuable traveling companion. Not only was he an outstanding swordsman, his reason was almost as sharp as the blade of his Toledo steel sword. Until now, he had come up with a solution to all their problems, but this time even his store of knowledge seemed to be exhausted.
“I was so sure,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “So damned sure.”
They both fell silent. Finally Melchior stood up and put on his dusty boots again. Reaching for his lute, he strummed a few notes. “Well, we can always go on to St. Goar,” he suggested.
“That monastery downstream along the Rhine?” Mathis looked at him blankly. “What would we do there?”
“Find out more about the secret Agnes dreamed about. My ballad can’t end unfulfilled. What’s more—if Agnes does manage to escape, she will surely set off for St. Goar herself. Maybe we’ll meet again there.”
“In a ballad, maybe, but not in real life.”
A hoarse cry interrupted Mathis. It came from a small tavern at the far end of the harbor that they had not yet visited. Now a shrill voice could be heard, like someone calling out in mortal fear.
“Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!”
Melchior von Tanningen gave a wry smile. “Sounds as if respect for Charles V still survives, even in these bad times. Rather dangerous but very praiseworthy, if you ask me.”
“It sounds more like a child, or . . .”
Suddenly Mathis remembered the night of the abduction, the rocking boat, and the strange voice that he had heard. This voice sounded just the same, hardly human, more of an animal screech, almost as if it came from . . .
Mathis put a hand to his brow. Then he jumped up, pulling Melchior with him as he began to run.
“Come on, quick!” he cried. “Maybe we’re still on the trail after all.”
Together, they ran to the crooked little tavern that nestled against one of the warehouses along the harbor. Mathis pushed
the door open and blinked at the dimly lit room inside. There was not a single guest to be seen, but a cage stood on one of the scratched tables, and there was a brightly colored bird inside the cage. It flapped and screeched at the top of its voice.
“Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!”
Breathing heavily, Melchior stopped in the doorway. “By my faith, a parrot,” he said at last, laughing. “Presumably one of the parrots those fellows had with them.”
Mathis nodded. “I heard that cry once before, when they were taking Agnes away on their boat,” he explained. “I couldn’t understand the words, but I do remember that sound.” He went up to the cage and looked at the strange bird. When he put his finger on the perch in the cage, the creature pecked at it with its large beak.
“Do you two want to buy it?” asked a deep voice. The bald-headed landlord had come up the steps from the cellar, puffing and blowing. He had a cask of wine in his broad, hairy arms, which he now put down carefully. “You can have it. That bird is getting on my nerves.”
“Where did you get it?” asked Mathis.
“From a couple of loud-mouthed entertainers that wanted to be rid of it. I guess it was too risky for them, traveling through the German lands these days with a bird that loves the emperor.” The landlord let out a bark of laughter. “Those louts said it could talk like any book, but that’s all I’ve heard it say.”
“Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!” the parrot repeated.
“Well, how about it?” asked the man. “You want to buy it or not?”
“These entertainers,” said Melchior von Tanningen. “Did they by any chance have a monkey and two women with them? I mean, one young girl, one slightly older girl with freckles and wild fair hair?”
The bald-headed man stared at him in surprise. “That’s right. They were here at my place. Drank a mug of spiced wine apiece before going on their way again.”
“Going up the Kinzig into the Black Forest, I expect?” the minstrel inquired.
“Oh God, no! Far too dangerous these days. Those oafs went off with the landsknechts from Lorraine. Bound north for Swabia. Hoping for good loot, I guess.” Suddenly a calculating look came into the landlord’s eyes. “You know them, do you?” he asked sharply.
Mathis dismissed this. “Er, no. We . . . we met them once, but . . .”
“Because they stole my handcart and left this lousy bird here in return. So I suggest you take it away with you and give me the money for a new cart.” The landlord squared up to them menacingly. “How about it, then?”
“One more question before we talk business,” Melchior persisted. “How long have you been in possession of this delightful little creature?”
“Three days. It was three days ago those scoundrels absconded.” The landlord stretched his lips in a bitter smile. “Three long days and nights I’ve had to put up with this shrieking.”
“Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!”
The parrot beat its wings frantically, and Melchior made a little bow.
“Pleased to have made your acquaintance. Unfortunately we have no use for the bird. But I know that there are some exquisite recipes at the French court in which parrots play a leading role. Maybe you could offer your guests a truly exotic dish one of these days.”
Without another word, they went out to the harbor, leaving the landlord hurling abuse after them. For a long time they could still hear the call of the parrot, risking life and limb as it went on praising His Majesty emperor Charles V to the skies.
“Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles . . .”
✦ 18 ✦
Höchberg in Franconia, 4 May, Anno Domini 1525
EVENING TWILIGHT WAS FALLING, a few days later and many miles farther away, as Mathis and Melchior walked through a devastated landscape.
Once the bald-headed landlord had told them which way the robbers had gone, the two set off immediately. Just beyond Kehl, Melchior managed to steal two old nags from a stable. But the horses had begun to go lame three days later, so they were back to traveling on foot. In spite of the pace they set for themselves, they had not yet caught up with the baggage train of the landsknechts from Lorraine. Or had they perhaps left it behind long ago? It was as if the war had swallowed up the soldiers lock, stock, and barrel.
By now, in conversation with some of the fugitives they met, Mathis had discovered that the landsknechts with whom the procurers were traveling were probably off to join the Swabian League. It was only for show that the commander of the league, Seneschal Georg von Waldburg-Zeil, had negotiated with the peasants near Lake Constance, and he was now preparing to strike a blow to utterly destroy them. Some ten thousand mercenaries were marching from the south, including over a thousand armored cavalry, murdering and burning all the country on the right-hand bank of the Rhine in an unparalleled campaign of vengeance. No one seemed to know just where those landsknechts were now, but Mathis suspected that he and Melchior, setting off in such haste, had gone much too far north.
“We’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack,” he murmured as they passed half a dozen burned-out cottages. “This war is everywhere, and Agnes is in the middle of it, unprotected, alone with those animals. She may not even still be alive.”
The corpses of several peasants swung from the branches of two charred elms in the wind. There were women and children among them.
“You lack confidence, Master Wielenbach,” said Melchior von Tanningen. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, he strummed a few chords on his lute. The wind carried the thin sound of the music away. “As long as Agnes is still with the robbers there’s hope. A parrot and a monkey. Sooner or later someone is going to remember such strange creatures. And then we’ll know we’re on the right track again.”
“Suppose Agnes has been sold to someone else?”
“Then we’ll find the scoundrel who bought her.” Melchior smiled confidently. “Don’t forget, this ballad of mine is going to win the prize at the Wartburg. And the ballads that I compose always end happily.”
He plucked a few strings again, and Mathis rolled his eyes.
“You’d be doing me a real favor if you’d only—” he began. But Melchior von Tanningen had already stopped playing and slung the lute over his shoulder. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“What is it?” Mathis asked cautiously.
They were just crossing a field of wheat, with its stalks rustling in the wind. Gray swathes of smoke drifted toward the two travelers. Melchior waved his hand in front of his face to disperse the smoke. He peered ahead, with some difficulty, for visibility was getting worse all the time, and in addition the sun was going down behind the trees.
“There’s someone here,” the minstrel finally said. “In this field. See for yourself.” He pointed to some stalks of wheat bending away from the direction of the wind. “It’s too late to run for it, so let’s at least hope there are not too many of them.”
And indeed, several figures now emerged from the smoke. There were about a dozen men, all of them shabbily dressed peasants, armed with scythes and flails. They had been hiding among the ears of the tall wheat and now slowly approached the travelers with their weapons raised.
“God be with you,” Melchior called to them, with a friendly smile. “We are simple folk on our travels, and mean no one any harm.” He raised his hands, whispering to Mathis, “If they attack us, we fight back until we’ve created enough confusion to let us run over to the outskirts of those woods, understand?”
Mathis nodded hesitantly and clutched his cudgel. The way the usually amusing minstrel could suddenly become a dangerous fighting man never ceased to surprise him.
The peasants reached them. They all looked exhausted, and many had blood-stained bandages on their heads, legs, or arms. The expression in their eyes was like that of hunted animals. Mathis suspected that they were the survivors of a major battle.
“We are ordinary pilgrims on the way to Rome,” Melchior said as calmly as possible. “We ask for free passage, as the old law prescribes.”
“What old law?” The giant glared at him blankly. Mathis realized that he was not especially bright, but all the same, he seemed to be the leader of the band. “You’re dressed too fine for a pilgrim,” he grunted at last, and then pointed to Melchior’s lute. “What would you want with that thing in Rome?”
“I am going to sing a song at the porch of St. Peter’s Basilica about the sad plight of peasants in the German Empire, and pray to God to be with them.”
There was a general murmuring. Obviously these men could not agree on what to do next.
“Curse Rome and curse the clergy!” one of them suddenly shouted. “That monk Luther is our new pope now. And the sale of indulgences is forbidden on pain of death.”
“The sale of indulgences, maybe, but not pilgrimage,” Melchior objected. “Didn’t the venerable Master Luther himself go on pilgrimage to Rome?”
That left the peasants baffled, and they began whispering together again. Finally it was the tallest man who spoke up once more.
“One way or another, you’re neither of you simple folk like us,” he spat, looking Melchior von Tanningen up and down. “Particularly not you. You’re a merchant or a baron or some such thing. Maybe there’s even a ransom for the likes of you two. The knight can decide what we do with you, so come along with us.”
Taking Mathis and Melchior into their midst, the men drove them on with kicks and blows into the shady beech wood that began at the far end of the field. Before long, the trees thinned out, and a wide plain with campfires burning all over it stretched out before their eyes. Now, as evening came on, it was as if the starry sky had come down to earth.