The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The minstrel stopped and pushed a mat of hanging ivy aside, revealing a small pond surrounded by willows, with water lilies floating on it. The forest rose menacingly around the pond. They stepped out of the tunnel and found themselves outside the castle walls.

  “When I lost sight of you at Ingolstadt, I thought at first you must be among the many thousand dead on the battlefield,” said Melchior, stepping out into the fresh evening air. “But then one of our peasants told me you had gone with the Black Band. So I made my way here. And where do I find you but in the middle of the fray?” The minstrel shook his head. “You really ought to take better care of yourself.”

  Cautiously, Mathis too stepped into the open and looked around. The castle was barely visible behind the tall spruce and fir trees, but he still heard the rumble of the guns not far away, now mingled with the peaceful croaking of frogs. Mathis, who was still shaking, closed his eyes for a moment. He really had escaped death again.

  “So now?” he asked faintly. “What do we do now?”

  “What do you think?” Melchior smiled mischievously. “If what the revered knight Florian Geyer said is right, then Agnes is in the baggage train of the Swabian League. And as fate would have it, the League’s landsknechts have pitched camp for the night only a few miles from here.” He adjusted the sword at his side and began walking away. “It’s about time we paid them and the noble lady a visit.”

  Agnes lay in the cart, stiff as a board, and listened to the procurer snoring beside her. It sounded calm and deep; Barnabas must be sleeping soundly. All the same, she waited another half an hour before finally, carefully, getting up.

  The singing of drunken landsknechts outside came through the thin canvas cover of the cart, and the stink of gunpowder lingered in the air. The battles of Königshofen and Ingolstadt had been the dirtiest and cruelest of this war so far. Dead men lay all the way to the horizon, and as usual it had been the task of the women to collect the weapons, clothes, and jewelry from the bodies. A task that Agnes bore stoically on this occasion, particularly because she knew it would be the last time.

  She had had to wait for a while before she could finally carry out her plan. Barnabas himself had given her the crucial idea a few days earlier, when he called for brandy. Now and then Agnes used the strong alcohol not just to wash wounds, but also to soothe her patients. It seemed an eternity ago that Father Tristan had told her what herbs, steeped in spirits, would induce sleep so sound that it was like a coma. Several more days had passed before she finally found the seed capsules of poppy in the fields and woods of Franconia, but together with wild hops and valerian, she had finally brewed her potion. Tonight, at last, she had given it to Barnabas with his usual copious drafts of wine. Luckily the monkey was outside by the campfire, with Marek and Snuffler. Agnes took a deep breath. Now she would finally be able to leave the baggage train and go on alone to St. Goar. Once there she would learn more about the ring, her dreams, and her own past history, and she still hoped that she might come upon some sign of Mathis.

  First, however, she must do one more thing.

  By now Agnes was standing beside the snoring procurer, distrustfully examining his twitching features. Barnabas seemed to be dreaming. He smacked his lips in his sleep and muttered, then turned on his side, so that the chain he wore around his neck slipped into full view.

  With her ring dangling from it.

  Agnes had been waiting for this moment. Soundlessly, she brought out a small pair of pincers that she had found in Mother Barbara’s chest of medicines and instruments, mainly used for pulling out teeth. Her hand approached the chain, she plucked up her courage to close the pincers, and the silver chain dropped silently into her fingers. They closed around the ring. She had it back at last. Now all she had to do was . . .

  “Stop right there!”

  Barnabas’s hand shot out like a vicious snake. He grabbed her throat and forced her down beside him.

  “Caught you at it, you witch,” he hissed, glaring at her with eyes that were wide awake. “You thought I wouldn’t notice you putting something in the wine. Ho, but Barbara saw you. First I didn’t believe her, but then the wine had such an odd, sweet flavor that I spat it out. Planning to poison me and then run off, were you, sweetheart?”

  “I only wanted—” Agnes croaked, but her abductor’s hand was compressing her throat so hard that she could barely even breathe. Then Barnabas took it in his other hand too, strong fingers closing around it, slowly squeezing the life out of her.

  “I never trusted you, you slut,” Barnabas whispered. “Not from the first. Thought I could tame you, but you’re still an arrogant, willful female. That sort’s not worth anything on the market, so I’ll have to throw you away like a bent piece of old iron. But first you’re going to be at my service one more time . . .”

  Barnabas chuckled. As he closed her mouth with one hand, the other wandered under her skirt like a spider, pushing it up. Agnes twisted and struggled, she tried to scream, but Barnabas was too strong. Forcing her down on her back, he pressed her thighs apart.

  “I’ve always been nice to you before,” he growled. “But that’s all over now, you bitch. You’ll never mix poison again.”

  Agnes could hardly draw a breath under his roughened hand. She smelled the cheap wine, his sweat, and the gunpowder clinging to his fingers. As the procurer, snorting, forced himself into her, she thought she would choke to death. Her hands hammered wildly on his back, but she might have been hitting a rock. Boundless fear and equally boundless hatred came together, so that she could hardly even think clearly.

  Suddenly Agnes felt a small, cool object that had been under the tangled blankets. The pincers she had used to cut through the chain. Without another thought, she grasped the instrument and brought it down on the hand that was still over her face. When he still went on, she opened the pincers and pressed them together again.

  With an ugly snapping sound, the jaws of the pincers closed, and Barnabas began to scream. He let go of her, sat up, and stared in astonishment at his right hand, which was covered with blood.

  Its little finger was missing, and lay on the blanket in front of Agnes like a fat worm.

  “You bitch!” shouted Barnabas. “You wait, I’ll carve you up and throw you to the pigs for this!”

  Bellowing, he flung himself on her, but at the last moment Agnes slipped aside. She had to get out of the cart, and quickly. It wouldn’t be long before Marek, Snuffler, and the others would come to see what the matter was. Where was her ring? She couldn’t leave without it. It had been in her hand just now, it must have fallen to the floor of the cart somewhere. But where? Everything was dark around her.

  And now Barnabas fell on her again. Agnes picked up the blood-stained blanket and threw it at him, distracting his attention for a moment.

  “Witch! Poisoner!” he bellowed. “Samuel, Marek, Snuffler, help me get this woman to the pyre.”

  At last she saw the ring.

  It had rolled into a corner and was lying beside a heap of rusty swords. The moonlight was coming in through a rent in the canvas over the cart, making the gold glitter.

  Agnes crawled over to the corner, snatched up the ring, and was about to escape out through the opening in the canvas when she felt Barnabas place his hand on her shoulder. He flung her, like a toy, to fall against one of the chests in the cart. His shirt and hose were smeared with blood. He stood above her like an angry, avenging god, and then threw himself on her once again. Agnes screamed as she had never screamed in her life.

  “Get away, you devil!” she spat. “You’ve tormented me long enough. Leave me in peace, you evil spirit, you . . .”

  But Barnabas was holding her throat as if it were in a vise, and her screaming died away.

  “Look at me as you die, Agnes,” the procurer rasped, licking his cracked lips. “My face will be the last thing you see in your—”

  All at once he stopped short, and his eyes bulged out like two large glass marbles. Groaning, he
opened his mouth to scream, but only a thin trickle of blood came out of it. His powerful body reared up, and then he tipped over to one side, lifeless.

  Trembling, Agnes looked at the splintered sword that she was still clutching convulsively. It was red with her attacker’s blood. When Barnabas rushed at her, she had instinctively picked up one of the weapons in the corner and rammed the blade into his belly.

  She looked apprehensively at the limp, blood-stained body beside her, but there was not another sound out of Barnabas. His eyes stared blankly at the canvas over the cart.

  Agnes felt remorse for no more than a split second. Father Tristan would certainly not have approved of what she had done. But then a sweet sense of satisfaction spread through her. It was as if another being who lived deep inside her had been longing for this moment.

  I ought to have done it much earlier. For all the women on whom that brute forced himself . . .

  Cries could be heard outside now, footsteps hurrying toward the cart. Agnes put the ring she had missed for so long on her finger and felt new strength flow into her. She cast one final glance at the dead procurer, then she cut a hole in the canvas at the back of the cart with the sword and slipped out into the darkness.

  Outside, the war waited.

  When Mathis and Melchior had at last reached the Swabian League’s camp, after walking for a good two hours over trampled and burned fields, Mathis’s heart was in his mouth. The army was so large that it seemed to stretch to the horizon in all directions. He had heard that the league had now joined the armies of the elector of the Palatinate and the bishop of Würzburg, and that their united forces consisted of almost ten thousand landsknechts and two thousand five hundred armored cavalry.

  And Agnes may be somewhere in the middle of this, he thought, but with every step he took, his hope diminished.

  It was dark, and the many campfires sparkled like fallen stars. Mathis was sure that someone would shout out at any moment, raising the alarm that would give them away, but nothing of the kind happened. The soldiers, some sleeping, others drunk and lying on the ground, ignored them. Now and then a few staggered past, singing at the top of their voices, but they were no danger either.

  The most difficult moment had been getting past the guards posted on the outskirts of the camp. Melchior had told Mathis that a password was usually needed, and it changed from day to day. However, the guards were stationed so far apart that the two could easily slip past them under cover of bushes and thorny shrubs. Then, following a shallow, muddy ditch that was invisible at a distance, they finally reached the heart of the camp.

  In battle, the landsknechts took their bearings from large flags representing the center of each unit, but here in the camp no one group could be distinguished from another. The many brightly clad soldiers in their slashed hose and padded doublets wore no identifying marks but a red and white armband or a ribbon in their hats. All the same, Mathis kept expecting some sergeant or lieutenant to accost and unmask them. It seemed to him that it took them hours to pass countless fires, gun carriages, carts, and tents.

  “This is what I imagine walking through Rome or Constantinople must be like,” Mathis groaned as he nervously looked around. “How can we ever find Agnes in such a crowd?”

  “First we must locate the baggage train,” said Melchior von Tanningen reassuringly. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Wait a minute.”

  Without any other explanation, he went over to a campfire and turned to the men singing and drinking around it. Mathis closed his eyes and murmured a quiet prayer, but the minstrel soon came back, smiling.

  “I asked where to find whores cheap,” Melchior explained. “All landsknechts know the way to the earthly paradise.” He solicitously took Mathis by the arm and led him on. “Come along, Master Wielenbach. If you go on looking so anxious, someone really will get suspicious.”

  After another half an hour, the brightly colored tents of the camp at last thinned out. Instead, they saw more and more handcarts and carts covered with canvas, the latter drawn by broken-down nags or oxen. Pots, pans, and metal dishes hung from many of them. Now Mathis saw a number of women and even some grubby children kicking up a great racket as they ran about the camp. There was a smell of stew, fried onions, and gruel, and in spite of the day’s dreadful experiences Mathis found that his mouth was watering. In contrast to the army camp itself, there was an almost peaceful atmosphere where the baggage train had come to a halt. Many of the landsknechts spent the night by warm fires with their families, who accompanied them right through the war, making sure there were regular meals, digging latrines, and plundering the abandoned battlefields. Mathis frowned. Looking at these people sitting together, eating, singing, and laughing, you would hardly believe that many of them had spent the day robbing, burning, and killing.

  He just heard a fiddle pick up a tune when two women in red and yellow dresses, their faces garishly painted, came toward them, swaying their hips.

  “Hello there, dearies,” cooed one of them, who was not in her first youth. Mathis saw that most of her front teeth were missing. “Fancy a little fun in our cart? We could be on our own, just the four of us.”

  “By your leave, ladies, we’re looking for a different kind of fun today,” replied Melchior von Tanningen, raising his hat. “We hear there’s a company of entertainers here with a monkey and a talking bird. Do you happen to know them, and where we can find them?”

  “Oh, old Barnabas and his mangy creatures.” The old whore made a scornful gesture. “No one wants to see his show anymore. Besides, he’s sure to be sleeping off his drink now.”

  “The way you talk and the way you look, I’ll bet it’s not Barnabas you’re after but his girl,” intervened the second, younger whore, winking at Melchior. “She thinks herself something special, too. Forget it. She’s Barnabas’s sweetheart, and haughty as she is, the selfish old bastard keeps her on a tight leash, same as his monkey.”

  The two women laughed shrilly, while Mathis felt himself turning to stone.

  “Is . . . is this sweetheart of his by any chance called Agnes?” he finally managed to say.

  The younger whore, who wore an obvious and ill-fitting wig, looked at him suspiciously. “That’s her name, yes. D’you know her? I’d like to know where she comes from. Seems to be a good healer, so they say. Maybe she used to be a nun.” She giggled. “That’ll be why that wicked old goat Barnabas’s mouth waters at the sight of her.”

  The other whore joined in her laughter, and together they pumped their hips provocatively. Mathis almost had to shout to get their attention again.

  “Where do we find this Barnabas?” he asked desperately. “Tell me.”

  The older woman calmed down, with some difficulty, and gave Mathis a nasty look. “What’ll you give me to tell you, eh?” she snapped. “That girl seems to be worth something to you. I’m beginning to think you’re hiding something from us. Maybe we ought to tell the provost? So let’s see the color of your money.” Greedily, she stretched out the palm of her wrinkled hand. “Come along.”

  At that moment, not far away, there was a high, shrill scream, closely followed by a voice crying out in pain. Mathis knew that second voice at once. He would have known it among thousands.

  It was Agnes, and she was crying out in mortal terror.

  Agnes jumped down from the cart into the darkness and, to her horror, saw the sturdy figure of Marek already approaching, ready to fight. Here and now, trying to run away was too dangerous, so she crawled under the cart and kept as still as possible.

  “The pope is a glutton! The pope is a glutton!” cackled the parrot suddenly in its cage, which hung from the driver’s seat on the outside of the cart. All the ruckus must have woken the bird. Marek angrily hit the bars of the cage, whereupon the parrot squawked and fluttered frantically up and down.

  “Damn you, keep quiet!”

  Marek cautiously peered inside the cart, and then let out a soft, appreciative whistle.

  “My G
od, someone did a thorough job,” he said. “If it was really our willful Agnes, we’ve underestimated her—what a devilish woman.” He looked around for his companions. “Snuffler, Samuel, come here and look at this!” he called. “That girl stuck Barnabas like a pig.”

  Agnes heard more footsteps approaching, and then the three men’s voices. Their muddy shoes were only a hand’s breadth away from her.

  “I always said the girl wasn’t to be trusted,” Snuffler said. “But Barnabas was crazy for her. And that’s what he gets for it.”

  “Could as easily have been one of us,” Marek pointed out. “So let’s catch the bitch and cut her pretty tits off. Snuffler, you and me will search the baggage train. Samuel, you stay here. She can’t have gone far.”

  The dirty shoes moved away, and Agnes breathed in deeply, only now noticing how long she had been holding her breath. She waited a little longer, then rolled cautiously out from under the cart and looked around. If she could manage to reach the carts and tents about thirty feet away, she would be safe for the time being. Or at least, her pursuers would have difficulty finding her in the labyrinth that opened up among the various tents and campsites. She only had to . . .

  A shrill chattering sound struck up close to her ear. It was the monkey, Satan, who had jumped down from the cart and was hopping frantically up and down. His mouth was distorted in a wide grin.

  “Go away! Go away, you little devil,” Agnes whispered desperately. “Get off, hurry up.”

  But it was too late. She felt the heel of a boot grinding painfully down on her left hand. When she looked up, she saw Samuel leering maliciously down at her.

  “Good boy.” He threw Satan a nut and then seized Agnes by the shoulder, hauled her up, and held his knife to her throat.

  “What you did to good old Barnabas wasn’t nice, not nice at all.” The robber shook his head disapprovingly. His knife toyed with Agnes’s bodice, while the monkey went on chattering beside him. “Not that I got on too well with him, but he was the leader of our band. Who’s going to fool the public with big talk now, eh?” He assumed an innocent expression. “Marek is going to cut your tits off for that. Dear me, what a waste.”