“Drop your weapon before it’s too late,” the assassin cried. “You have my word as a man of honor that I’ll let you go. It’s not you I’m after.”
Melchior only smiled as the sweat ran down from his forehead in channels, leaving white trails behind. “You destroyed my lute,” the little man got out at last, panting. “I’m sorry, but for that alone I can’t accept your offer.”
“Bloody fool!”
With a last desperate show of force, the assassin threw the delicately built minstrel against one of the bookshelves. The shelf fell with a deafening noise, and both men landed in a sea of books. They both struck out like drowning men to free themselves from the tomes. Both got to their feet at about the same time, but Melchior no longer had his sword in his hand.
“Thinking of giving up yet?” the assassin growled, circling his sword in the air. “Too late for that now, I’m afraid.”
But Melchior showed no fear. Instead, he linked his hands as if doing a conjuring trick, murmured a few words, and at last a bunch of keys appeared between his fingers, as though from nowhere. “Looking for something?” he asked with pretended guilelessness. “These must have fallen out of your pocket just now as you fell. I had to drop my own sword to feel for them, but I think it was worth it.”
“What are you thinking?” the assassin said. “We can talk about—”
“I think it’s time to say goodbye. As I told you, you shouldn’t have destroyed my lute. I’d never forgive a thing like that. Never.”
The little man kicked a pile of burning books into the assassin’s face, and then ran swiftly to the door. Bellowing, the black man dropped his sword and shook some smoldering pages out of his matted black hair. Then he ran after his adversary.
The door slammed shut, and next moment the key was turned in the lock. The assassin shook the handle, flung himself against the iron-clad wood with all his might, but the door did not give way.
“Open this door! For heaven’s sake open this door!” he kept shouting, although his pleas fell on deaf ears.
Breathlessly, Agnes ran after Mathis, who still carried the wounded dean over his shoulder. When they finally reached the great hall, they stopped in horror. It was considerably brighter than it had been an hour ago, when they came past the shelves with Father Domenicus. There seemed to be lanterns burning everywhere now. Next moment, Agnes saw where the brightness really came from.
My God, those aren’t lanterns. The whole library is going up in flames.
In his flight, the burning canon had obviously set fire to books in several places. Separate fires had started everywhere, and the flames had spread to other areas. Wherever Agnes looked, books glowed like paper lanterns in the darkness of the cavernous hall. There was no sign of the other monks. Presumably they had already left the library through the entrance.
Agnes and Mathis wearily dragged themselves on, while around them the first of the balconies and their blazing contents crashed to the floor. A shower of embers and ashes fell on them both, and again Agnes found that her thick coat did good service, protecting her from flying sparks.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached the front door. Directly in front of it lay a charred bundle, still smoking. When Agnes was about to climb over it she cried out in horror. A tiny black face with its teeth bared grinned at her. For a split second Agnes thought it was the little monkey, Satan, but then she saw that it was the corpse of a monk, burned beyond all recognition.
“At least he’s spared himself the fire of Purgatory,” gasped Mathis, breathless from the weight of the dean. “I have a terrible presentiment.”
Pushing past her, he tried the door handle, and swore.
“Locked. I was afraid of that.” he said angrily. “These craven clerics! Locking us in here, because they thought the devil was on their heels. Now what?”
Agnes pointed to Father Domenicus, still hanging limp over Mathis’s shoulders. “His bunch of keys,” she shouted, against the crackling of the flames. “The dean still has it on him.”
“Damn it, you’re right.” Groaning, Mathis carefully let the dean slip to the floor. Searching with quick fingers, he soon found the bunch of keys hanging from a cord around the waist of his habit. But as he was about to reach for it, the dean suddenly put out his hand, and clutched him by the shirt.
“Never fear, reverend Father,” Mathis reassured him. “We’re only taking the key to open the door. We’ll get you out of here, and then everything will be—”
“Quiet, boy, and listen to me,” Father Domenicus rasped. “There’s something else that . . . you must know.”
“Can’t you tell us up above?” Agnes said, looking anxiously around. “If we stay here much longer, we may be buried by one of the burning shelves.”
“It must . . . be now,” the dean groaned. “I feel . . . my end approaching.”
“Oh God, Father. You mustn’t die now, you mustn’t.” Agnes bent down to Father Domenicus. Looking at his gaunt face, she thought of Father Tristan, who had died in an equally cruel way. The dean took her hand and held it with all his might.
“Agnes, remember what I said. I . . . I was speaking of your inheritance. Of the symbol that can unite this divided empire again. You . . . must look for it. That is your task.”
“But what is it?” Mathis was leaning over the dean now, as well. Despite the heat, Father Domenicus was shivering all over. “Please tell us quickly, Father. There really isn’t much time left.”
Father Domenicus moaned. His voice was so low that they both had to bend down to hear it at all.
“On the day when . . . Constanza and Johann fled from Trifels with little Sigmund, they took something with them,” he whispered. “It was to be security for them, their bargaining tool if anything happened. They were captured, but their bargaining tool . . . was never found.”
The dean reached for Agnes’s hand, and drew her so close to him that his lips almost touched her ear.
“That was why the Habsburgs tortured Constanza so cruelly,” he said. “They . . . wanted her to tell them not just where the child was, but where she had hidden that inestimably precious thing. But she kept obstinately silent. Finally they walled Constanza up in Trifels Castle, leaving only a tiny gap open so that she could tell her tormentors the place. All they heard from her, however, was weeping and singing getting fainter and fainter until, at last, all was quiet. Constanza had taken her secret to the grave with her.”
“But what was it?” asked Mathis, out of the corner of his eye seeing more shelves nearby fall to the floor in flames. A fierce firestorm was sweeping through the library now. “Tell us, Father. Before all of us here take Constanza’s secret to our own graves with us.”
“What had Constanza and Johann hidden?” Agnes added her pleading to his. “What is so valuable that anyone would let herself be walled up alive for it?”
Once again, a slight smile played around Father Domenicus’s lips.
“Can’t you guess, Agnes?” he whispered. “What is the most valuable thing that the empire possesses? What is the most important symbol of all German emperors and kings?” He briefly closed his eyes, before the answer left him, like a last sigh.
“It is . . . the Holy Lance.”
At that moment, a huge explosion shook the library. Right above them, a burning balcony came away and fell down toward Agnes in a mighty shower of sparks.
The explosion shook the whole underground cavern like a huge earthquake.
At the last moment, Agnes managed to swerve aside as the balustrade of the balcony fell down toward her. The burning balcony buried the dean under it with a sound like thunder, while on the other side of it Mathis disappeared behind a wall of sparks and glowing embers.
“Mathis! Mathis!” she shouted. A few seconds that felt like an age to her passed, and then she heard a hoarse cough.
“I’m all right!” Mathis called. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”
At last the shower of sparks died down, and not f
ar away Agnes saw Mathis rise from the smoking ruins. He was black as a raven in the face, his clothes had begun to singe in several places, but otherwise he seemed uninjured. Between them lay beams, glowing books, and the remains of the balcony, which until recently had been above the door. Nothing could be seen of Father Domenicus.
“Oh no—the dean . . .” Agnes said.
“He’s with his God,” Mathis said. Then he kicked some of the rubble aside. “And if we don’t make haste, we’ll soon be in paradise ourselves.” Coughing, he held up Father Domenicus’s bunch of keys, which he had managed to save from the falling ruins at the last moment. “This damned door opens inward, so we’ll have to clear this . . .”
He broke off when a figure black with soot suddenly came tottering toward the two of them through the underground vault. The man was carrying such a high stack of books that his face was not in view. Only when he was within a few steps of them did Agnes see that it was Melchior von Tanningen.
“Thank God!” she cried. “I thought that devil had carried you down into the abyss with him.”
“If I interpret that explosion correctly, he’s just gone to hell himself,” replied Melchior, who swayed slightly under the burden of the books he carried. “He shouldn’t have destroyed my lute. I distinctly told him so.”
“You’re welcome to tell us the rest of it up above,” Mathis said. “It would be kind of you to give us a hand clearing away this rubble first.” Shaking his head, he looked at the books in the minstrel’s hands. “What in heaven’s name are you carrying about?”
“This one is Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parcival in a beautifully illustrated edition. Also a collection of the old minnesingers’ works; Emperor Maximilian’s book on tournaments, Freydal; and a few other books that deserve to be saved for posterity.” Melchior sighed. “But you’re right. It’s time to get out of here.” He carefully put the books on the floor and then helped Mathis and Agnes to push aside the burning beams near the doorway. Before long there was enough space clear for Mathis to approach the lock with the bunch of keys.
“Let’s hope we can find the right one quickly, before the smoke dazes us,” he choked. Then, disappointed, he took the first key out of the lock. “It’s not this one.”
“Hurry up!” Agnes was coughing. She stared, with watering eyes, at the pile of glowing beams beside her. The dean’s body must be somewhere under it. “I don’t know how long I can stand this smoke and heat.”
“Not this one either,” murmured Mathis. He frantically tried another key.
“I managed to get hold of a bunch of keys like that myself,” remarked Melchior. “Maybe I might try . . .”
“Aha, this one fits!” Mathis cried in relief, as one of the keys turned, and the door opened, squealing. “Now let’s get out. Before it all collapses on us.”
Agnes and Mathis hurried up the steep spiral staircase together, while the smoke hovered behind them like a spirit. Meanwhile, Melchior had picked up his books again, and followed at a slight distance. With every step, the air became noticeably cooler and fresher. It was as if, like Orpheus, they were emerging from the underworld. Agnes heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the open doorway leading into the baptismal chapel above them. In their haste, the fleeing Benedictine canons had not closed the memorial stone of Diether von Katzenelnbogen after them.
“So much lost knowledge!” Melchior sighed. “A real shame. To the best of my knowledge, there’s no such library any longer in the whole German Empire.”
“At least you managed to save a few valuable works,” said Mathis, who had now reached the way out.
Melchior grinned. “That I did. Not that I want to sell them, but every one of these books is worth as much as a dozen pure-bred horses.”
Mathis looked at the minstrel in surprise. “Damn it all, don’t say that again or I’ll be going back down there to get some for myself.”
Exhausted, trembling all over, Agnes climbed up through the opening, through which thin wisps of smoke still crept. The dignitaries on the nearby gravestones seemed to be inspecting her and her two companions almost reproachfully. Their shirts and hose were torn and charred at the edges; their hands and faces were black with soot. Only the whites of their eyes showed. Agnes wiped the sweat from her brow and looked around her. The chapel was empty, and after the roar of the flames an almost unreal silence reigned.
Suddenly they heard the shrill sound of the church bells ringing nearby.
“It won’t be long now before the monks reappear,” said Mathis. “If we want to avoid trouble, we’d better leave this church as fast as we can.”
“And what about all that we found out down there?” Agnes wearily rubbed her sooty eyes. She felt so weak that she had to lean against the wall to keep herself from fainting away. “It seems to me that this whole day was nothing but a nightmare, and I’m only just awakening from it.”
“It may as well have been a dream,” replied Mathis gloomily. “You a descendant of Barbarossa? Without Emperor Frederick II’s deed, all that is just a pretty story. Yes, you have the ring, but that’s not evidence that you’re really descended from the Staufers, not by a long shot.” He pointed to the smoking void behind them. “The proof of it lies in ashes down there.”
“Maybe I don’t want any proof. Maybe I’m glad I can simply be Agnes von Erfenstein, daughter of the castellan of Trifels Castle.”
Mathis looked at her sternly. “So how about the Holy Lance? Father Domenicus said you had to carry out a task. Have you forgotten that?”
“For God’s sake, why does everyone want to tell me what to do?” Agnes’s eyes glittered in her black sooty face like well-cut gemstones. “Can’t I make up my own mind anymore? I’ll tell you something, Mathis Wielenbach. I’m glad that the wretched deed has been burned. At least that means the story comes to an end and we can go home.”
“Maybe you can go home, my lady countess, but I’m a wanted insurgent. Have you by any chance forgotten that?”
“And I suppose you have forgotten that I ran away from my deranged, vengeful husband.”
Beside them, Melchior von Tanningen cleared his throat. “I am very reluctant to interrupt your extremely interesting conversation,” he said. “But as for the fate of that document, I fear I must disappoint my lady the countess.” Smiling, he drew out a folded sheet of parchment, slightly charred at the edges, from under his stack of books. It was the deed that Father Domenicus had shown them down in the library. Agnes recognized the family tree that had been kept up to date, and the seal of the Staufer emperor below it.
“When chaos broke out down in that chamber, I thought it best to take care of the deed myself,” the minstrel went on. “I think it is worth more than all the books I saved put together.” He tucked the parchment away in his soot-smeared doublet, put his books under his arm, and with a delicate step made for the way out of the chapel. “And now let’s get away fast, before we end up executed as arsonists who destroyed the greatest of all libraries in the German lands.”
✦ 22 ✦
Löwenstein Castle, near Heilbronn, 15 June, Anno Domini 1525
IN THE SKY NOT FAR from the family seat of the Löwenstein-Scharfenecks, a kestrel circled. In search of fat field mice, it flew over the fields where now, in mid-June, the ears of grain were turning gold as they ripened. It was nearly midday, and the sun beat down. There had been no rain for several days, and all who possibly could had taken refuge in the cool, shady rooms inside the castle, waiting for the worst of the heat to pass over.
Only one man stood on the battlements, watching the flight of the small red-brown bird. Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck held his crossbow steady, not the slightest tremor passed through his body, he fixed his eyes on his target one last time, and then he shot.
As if drawn on the end of a string, the bolt flew toward the sun. It hit the kestrel right in the breast. The bird fluttered frantically, refusing to accept its death, beat its wings a couple of times, trying to rise, and then s
ank like a stone to the depths, where it finally vanished from sight among the ears of wheat and barley.
“Got you, my little friend,” said the count, smiling.
Only now did he venture to exhale. Humming a tune, he unstrung the crossbow and put the string away with his remaining bolts and the hook used to string the bow, in a well-greased quiver. Before putting his yew-wood bow away, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck lovingly stroked the ivory intarsia work that adorned it. He had always loved shooting the crossbow: the whirr of the bolt, its silent flight, the deadly precision with which it finally found its mark. And he had always preferred it to those loud, stinking firearms that determined the course of battles everywhere these days. Any fool of a peasant could fire a gun at the enemy; for the crossbow you needed strength to string the bow, good eyes, and above all a great deal of practice.
These days he practiced almost daily.
His heart beat faster when he thought how he had shot down that inquisitive steward at Trifels like a deer last year. The act had given him a sense of absolute power that lasted for a long time. Not that the killing had been done for pure pleasure; it was a matter of necessity, or the man would have talked. The following murder of the drunken castellan, however, had given Friedrich no real satisfaction; the poison had taken effect slowly, with none of the thrill that you felt when your victim looked you in the eyes for the last time.
The crossbow was better for that.
“I might have known you’d be up here gazing into thin air, you ne’er-do-well.”
His father’s voice made Friedrich spin around. The old man was coming up the steps from the castle courtyard, breathing heavily and leaning on a stick. The mere sight of him was enough to turn the young count’s stomach. It always reminded him of the abuse and vituperation so often inflicted on him by his father, ever since his earliest childhood.
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