The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  He was short of powder, cannonballs, and above all capable workers who could service the guns. Besides Mathis there was only a single efficient gunner in Würzburg, along with a few smiths who had some experience in forging weaponry and tools and understood a little about firearms. Mathis counted himself lucky that Melchior von Tanningen knew an astonishing amount about the art of war. After only a few days of learning and experimenting with his new knowledge, the minstrel had been able to give the peasants the necessary instructions. At the moment he was at the Nikolausberg fieldworks with the master gunner of Würzburg, where several more artillery pieces were in position.

  The sound of swift footsteps made Mathis look up from his work. For a moment he thought that another rash peasant was about to endanger his own life and the lives of others, but it was a tall figure in the garments of a nobleman.

  “The moon is shining like a great lantern, Master Wielenbach,” said the man, smiling and raising a hand in greeting. “Maybe we should begin storming the fortress before daybreak. Then at least we’d have it behind us.”

  Mathis bowed slightly as the dark-haired knight with his neatly trimmed side whiskers came closer. He had met Florian Geyer three or four times before, and had taken to him very much. Like Götz von Berlichingen, Geyer was from an old Franconian family of knightly rank living near Würzburg. As a young man, he had been sent to the court of King Henry VIII as an envoy. He spoke fluent English, had an easy command of courtly behavior, and was regarded as the great hope of his family—but then he had suddenly thrown in his lot with the peasants and their cause.

  In his few conversations with Florian Geyer, the young weaponsmith had concluded that, like Mathis himself, he believed in justice and the good in mankind. He was also a born leader. At his side, Mathis had once again felt, for the first time in a long while, that the peasants’ struggle could be crowned by success.

  “I need at least a little daylight to take aim,” said Mathis, letting his gaze pass critically over the dark fortress. “After five in the morning it ought to be possible to fire the artillery. Although I don’t believe it’s really a good idea to attack this fortress,” he added gloomily. “The men up there are extremely well equipped.”

  Geyer shrugged his shoulders. “And don’t I know it. This siege is merely holding us up while the seneschal goes on arming his Swabian League. But for many of the peasants and citizens here, Marienberg is first and foremost the residence of their archenemy Prince Bishop Konrad. The fortress is a symbol, no more and no less.”

  “And we’re going to beat our heads against it until they bleed, no more and no less,” Mathis replied.

  Geyer grinned. “Not if you aim the guns as well as you have so far. In addition we also have my lads—don’t forget that.”

  “Certainly not.” Mathis shook his head and began charging the next cannon. Since his baptism by fire, when he shot the empty shed to smithereens, he had made a name for himself among the peasants. In the field, he was now regarded as irreplaceable, despite his youth, and even Götz von Berlichingen had condescended to pay him a gruff compliment. But at least as valuable as the artillery were the men, some two hundred of them, whom Florian Geyer had trained himself, and who were under his direct command. They called themselves the Black Band, since they were clothed entirely in black. Unlike the peasants, many of them had fought in battles before, and in the field they were regarded as unscrupulous, quick, and invincible.

  “A thousand men like yours and a hundred new guns, and this war would have been over long ago,” said Mathis as he carefully charged the gun through its muzzle with the dark gray granular powder. “As it is, we’re merely patching things up.”

  Geyer sighed. “I only wish it were. But the peasants are simply disunited. The Allgäu Band, the Lake Constance Band, the men from the Neckar valley, the Franconians, all the rest of them. There are too many different armies. What we need is a common flag, a symbol under which all would gather.” He shrugged. “But that’s not the reason I was looking for you.” Suddenly the knight lowered his voice and looked around conspiratorially. “I’m setting out soon for Rothenburg ob der Tauber, to ask for guns and powder there. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll try to make it possible.”

  Stunned, Mathis looked at the knight. “But the attack on the fortress . . .” he began. However, Geyer dismissed his objection.

  “It can begin without me. And if Marienberg doesn’t fall, that won’t decide the war. However, if we go on fighting in so poorly armed and disorganized a fashion, our just war will soon be over. It can’t go on like this, at least.”

  Mathis knew that Geyer was right. There were many peasants here, over twenty thousand encamped around Würzburg alone, but they had not the faintest notion of the way to wage war. Only Götz von Berlichingen and Florian Geyer seemed able to impose at least a little discipline on the various bands that were at odds with one another. Yet those two knights did not get on with each other at all. Geyer thought Berlichingen an unscrupulous careerist who would always veer with the prevailing wind, while Berlichingen called Geyer an obstinate dreamer—and Mathis thought they were both right.

  “I need more granular gunpowder and bombards, if possible, and guns of medium size, and mortars,” Mathis said, after some thought. “That’s the only way we can breach those fortifications.” He indicated the rusty gun in front of him. “What I have here is just about enough to blow a wooden wall down.”

  Florian Geyer nodded. “I’ll see what can be done. Rothenburg is a rich city. If it can’t help us, I’ll try others.” He hesitated, and then nodded his head. “And there’s something else,” he said at last, quietly. “You once told me about the girl you are looking for. The entertainers with the monkey and the talking bird . . .”

  Mathis felt his heart leap up. He had indeed once told Geyer about Agnes over a goblet of wine, although without going into the details of her abduction. Could the knight really have found out anything?

  “What about her?” he asked cautiously.

  “Well, I know nothing for certain, but just outside Würzburg a couple of enemy scouts fell into our hands. We wanted them to tell us the size of the seneschal’s army. Our captives said there was a large baggage train, with traveling brewers, booths selling brandy, smiths, whores, wandering preachers, and a group of entertainers with a monkey . . .” Geyer paused, while Mathis gazed at him expectantly. The knight finally sighed. “That’s all I know, Mathis. It may be another monkey, but I think you deserve a little hope.” He smiled. “Don’t go running away just yet. We need you here. And we’ll be meeting the Swabian League soon enough.”

  Mathis nodded. “I promise you I’ll see this thing through. But after that—”

  A loud explosion shook the ground around them. Several of the windows of the Deutschlandhaus Church broke with a crash, bringing Mathis back to the depressing present.

  “Damn it, that was over on the Niklausberg,” he shouted against the racket. “I told Melchior von Tanningen and the others there not to start firing before daybreak.”

  “It could have been the enemy,” Florian Geyer pointed out. He looked up at the fortress, where red lights flared up. The crashing and the flashes of light went on. “I’m off now to Rothenburg. When I’m back, either the fortress will fall, or we’ll move on.”

  And without a word of farewell, the knight disappeared into the turmoil.

  “Wait!” Mathis shouted after him. “The Swabian League! Where can I find it?”

  But Florian Geyer was already out of sight.

  The noise and shouting were much louder now. Not far away, peasants armed with scythes and spears were running down the streets toward Marienberg. The bearded leader of one troop ran breathlessly up to Mathis with a hastily written scrap of paper in his hand.

  “Orders from above to start the bombardment now,” he managed to say, breathing heavily. “No time to be lost.”

  “But it isn’t yet—” Mathis began to protest, but the broad-built man jabbed
him angrily in the chest.

  “Didn’t you hear? That’s what the leaders have decided, so get on with it.”

  Mathis shook his head. For a moment he thought of refusing, but then he called the peasants assigned to him to his aid. Together, they charged the guns and began firing into the darkness.

  So pointless, he thought. We’re only wasting what little ammunition we have. It’s time I got away from here.

  As he charged the barrels of the guns with acrid-smelling powder and listened to the familiar hissing in the touchholes, his thoughts kept returning to Agnes. He suppressed the fear that Florian Geyer had been talking about some other monkey. There was hope again, or at least a little hope.

  That alone spurred him to do his work faster.

  The bombardment went on until evening and continued the next day. But none of the sound and fury led to any result. The peasants’ artillery struck the slope on which the fortress stood. A number of cannonballs stuck fast in the thick walls of the fortress. There was much crashing, and flashing lights, but Marienberg suffered no major damage. The attackers were beginning to grow impatient.

  “Why are you firing at the slope?” the troop leader, now sweating profusely, snapped at Mathis. It was nearly midday, and he was running back and forth between the few heavy artillery pieces from which smoke was belching and giving orders to the overtaxed peasants. “You want to aim up there, where the castle stands, damn it.”

  “Do it yourself if you think you can aim better.” Mathis had difficulty controlling himself. They gave him gunpowder of poor quality and falconets that were too short and misshapen, and they expected him to work miracles. “I couldn’t hit the dome of St. Peter’s even if I was standing right in front of it,” he went on. “If Geyer doesn’t get back soon with some larger artillery pieces, we might as well give up.”

  “Ho, you just can’t aim right, that’s all it is. Wait until Götz hears. There’ll be trouble.”

  “Götz can go and . . .”

  The curse on which Mathis was embarking was drowned out by a mighty crash, closely followed by screaming. When he looked to his right, he saw that one of the medium-size culverins had exploded. Its barrel lay in several pieces, as if a giant’s fist had crushed it. Black smoke rose from the ground and hovered in the air. As the smoke died down, the bodies of several peasants, blown to bits, became visible. Mathis couldn’t say how many of them there were. Limbs were lying everywhere, and blood spurted from a torso beside the gun. Farther away several men staggered along the streets like ghosts, hands to their ears, their faces black with soot from the explosion.

  “You’ll have to answer for that!” the troop leader shouted at Mathis, whose head was still echoing like the clapper in a bell. “We never ought to have let a young fellow like you fire the guns.”

  “And who else is going to do it? A few day laborers, or maybe your coppersmith? The last I saw of him, he was lying in the city moat, dead drunk.”

  “Quiet, damn it!” shouted a deep voice—a voice accustomed to giving orders. Götz von Berlichingen pushed his way through the crowd of injured men and curious bystanders. Muttering, the peasants stepped aside. The knight cast a brief glance at the wreck of the culverin, and then turned to Mathis.

  “Charging the barrel with powder is the task of the master gunner alone,” he said menacingly, pointing his iron hand at the groaning and screaming injured men. “It’s your doing if we’ve lost a dozen men and a culverin.”

  Mathis went red in the face. “I did not charge the barrel myself—that was some of your peasants. If we’re going to be firing artillery here all day long, one gunner is not enough. But you’re welcome to light the fuses yourself, sir knight.”

  Götz von Berlichingen flinched slightly. He raised his iron hand as if to strike Mathis with it but then lowered it again. The knight knew that both he and Florian Geyer were regarded as suspect by many of the peasants, whose dislike of rich noblemen was too great to be overcome.

  “I’ll let it go at a warning today,” Berlichingen growled at last. “Let’s hope you’ll take more care from now on.” He turned to the peasants standing around. “The bombardment goes on until nightfall,” he announced. “And then Geyer’s notorious Black Band will storm this infernal fortress, come what may.”

  The men shouted jubilantly. Only Mathis stared at the knight in horror. “But that’s a death sentence for the attackers,” he burst out. “We’ll never have breached the walls by then. Not unless Geyer gets back to us with larger cannon soon.”

  “Tauberbischofsheim isn’t far away, and they’re sending guns from there,” replied Berlichingen coolly. “That will have to do.”

  “But they’re not large enough. And Florian Geyer isn’t here. Without him, how is his band to—”

  “Not another word. I was always against storming Marienberg. But if it has to be done, it must at least be done quickly. This fortress has been holding us up far too long already.”

  Without any salutation, Götz von Berlichingen turned and marched away along the blood-smeared alley. Mathis could hardly refrain from shouting after the knight. Only yesterday he had ruled out any storming of the fortress, and now this. It looked like the one-armed knight was deliberately sacrificing Geyer’s men. Did he mean to weaken his troublesome rival, now that he was not present, or was he really anxious to storm the fortress as soon as possible?

  But there was no time for more thought. The peasants were beginning to charge several of the guns with powder again.

  “Stop!” cried Mathis, running over to them. “Not like that. Do you want another bloodbath? And for God’s sake take that torch away.”

  Soon the dead and injured had been removed, and the bombardment resumed. The attackers built rafts under the bridge over the Main so that they could cross the river more quickly. When a rainbow appeared in the sky early in the afternoon, the peasants saw it as a sign from God. Jubilation broke out, and they armed themselves for the evening’s assault.

  This is madness, thought Mathis. Sheer madness. The ring of besiegers around the fortress isn’t even closed. And there isn’t a single breach to let Geyer’s men through the walls.

  In fact it was mainly Geyer’s Black Band, with a few other troops, who charged the Marienberg after nightfall. The fearless men tore down palisades and outworks in total darkness and made their way to the outer citadel. Finally they tried climbing the walls with the aid of ladders. Mathis heard their dying cries, he saw the muzzles of the defenders’ guns flashing, and still he was desperately trying to breach the stone ramparts of Marienberg.

  In vain.

  When dawn came, hundreds of dead and dying men lay in the moat below Marienberg, many of them members of Geyer’s Black Band. The peasants tried to retrieve their comrades, but they came under fire from the fortress and finally had to retreat. Mathis could still hear the cries and wails of the dying men until afternoon, and then, slowly, silence returned.

  The assault was over.

  Only a few days later, Agnes was standing on a hilltop, watching the flames licking up from the rooftops of Weinsberg like giant fingers. She heard cattle lowing in mortal terror in the burning sheds, the sound of houses collapsing in flames, and the strong wind roaring over the red-hot destruction of the town.

  An old woman crouched on the ground beside her, crying out with the pain of her grief in the evening dusk. Her husband, a frail old man, had bent down and was trying to comfort her. A shabby little leather purse hung from his belt, all that the pair had been able to bring away from their house. They were not alone; the hills and high ground all around the town were covered with old people holding hands, weeping and wailing as they looked down at what had once been their homes. The younger citizens of Weinsberg had already taken their children and fled when news came, several days before, that the seneschal was on his way with his Swabian League. Only a month ago, the peasants here, led by Jäcklein Rohrbach, had made Count Ludwig von Helfenstein and his companions run the gauntlet and then murde
red them, and this was the revenge exacted by Seneschal Georg von Waldburg-Zeil and the Swabian League. Not one stone was to be left on another in the town of Weinsberg and the surrounding villages. Those who did not get away fast enough were burned alive in their houses.

  A groan passed through the people on the hills as a horse on fire galloped out of the open gates of the town. It whinnied shrilly, stumbled a little farther, and then collapsed and went on burning in silence. The man beside Agnes crossed himself.

  “It’s the wrath of God!” he wailed. “The wrath of God! We never should have risen against our masters.”

  “It’s not the wrath of God, but the wrath of the nobility,” Agnes murmured, so quietly that no one could hear her. “And I am one of them.” Then she turned her face away, and climbed down the hill, deep in thought.

  This will soon be over one way or the other. Not much longer now, and I can turn my back on all these horrors.

  The last few days had shown her very clearly that this was not a just war. Wherever the landsknechts of the Swabian League went, with their baggage train after them, they killed the peasants like vermin. In Sindelfingen the seneschal’s men had caught one of the peasant leaders responsible for the bloody murder of Helfenstein at Weinsberg. Now he was bound by a long chain to a tree surrounded by burning pyres. The poor fellow had run back and forth between the bonfires, screaming, until at last he was roasted alive.

  “Hey, Agnes, come on! There are no pickings here.”

  That was Barnabas, standing beside his cart and waving to her impatiently. The procurer had expected good loot in Weinsberg, but now that the town was ablaze he wanted to get back to the baggage train as quickly as he could.