The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  The casket crumbled in his hands. Tiny bones and a small skull fell clattering to the floor.

  “Curse it, what’s that?” the count asked.

  “I’m afraid we ought to have read the funerary inscription more closely,” Melchior murmured, staring with narrowed eyes at a small lead plate with writing engraved on it at the front of the sarcophagus. “Her newborn daughter was buried with Beatrix. The baby’s name was Agnes. What a charming coincidence, don’t you think?”

  He glanced at Agnes. She was still crouching on one of the lower steps up to the vault, leaning against a column. She had closed her eyes as if she were asleep.

  When she did not answer, Melchior turned to the three landsknechts. “What do the other tombs look like? Have you found anything that could be taken for a lance, or any clue to finding it?”

  By now the men had also opened the other sarcophagi on the upper level of the monument. All three contained skeletons, two of which began crumbling to dust a few minutes after the air reached them. One corpse, however, was still so well preserved that Mathis felt as if the dead man were following the desecration of his body with small, evil eyes. According to the inscription, this must be no less than the great Habsburg emperor Rudolf.

  The mercenary leader, Roland, shook his head, exhausted, and leaned on his shovel. “We’ve found nothing. A few grave gifts. Daggers, rings, brooches and so forth. We even found a small, rusty imperial orb. But nothing like a lance.”

  “It’s very small, don’t forget,” said Melchior. “It’s only the point of the weapon, no longer than a man’s forearm.”

  “You heard what my men said,” the count told him. “The lance isn’t here. And time is running out for us.” He turned angrily to Agnes. “You were only trying to fool us. Admit it. Not that that will do you any good now.”

  “I truly thought the lance was in this place,” Agnes said, raising her voice at last. She rubbed her arms as she shivered. The expression in her eyes was empty, as though she were looking at something far away. “It could be in a sarcophagus lower down.”

  “Where exactly, countess?” Melchior insisted. “We can’t pull the whole monument to pieces. We don’t have time for that.”

  “Why would I help you any farther?” whispered Agnes. “I must die anyway.”

  “But you can choose how,” replied the count. “And think of your lover here. You don’t want my men burying him alive in one of these coffins, do you?”

  Agnes remained obdurately silent. Friedrich was about to go on when Mathis suddenly laughed aloud. He threw his spade away and shook his head, between desperation and amusement. The answer to the puzzle had struck him like a flash of lightning, at the very moment when Friedrich was threatening to bury him in one of the coffins. Now he stared, bewildered, at the work of destruction wreaked among the tombs in front of him.

  We could have spared ourselves all this work, he thought. Why did none of the others think of it? They are all obviously obsessed by the idea of this lance.

  “What in the devil’s name is so funny?” snapped Friedrich. “Out with it, fellow. Before I stuff your mouth with a bone to close it.”

  “You don’t frighten me, Scharfeneck,” Mathis folded his arms defiantly. “Did you really expect to find the lance in a sarcophagus here? How stupid are you all?”

  Melchior von Tanningen frowned. “What do you mean? Explain yourself, Master Wielenbach.”

  “Well, if I remember correctly, Johann of Brunswick was in flight from his pursuers when he was finally brought to bay in Speyer Cathedral,” Mathis began, with quiet satisfaction. “Even if he did have the lance with him, do you really suppose he’d have had the time to open a sarcophagus at his leisure and hide it there? Just how was he going to do that, if not by calling on the angels to help him?”

  For a while all was so still that they could hear nothing but the wind rattling the cathedral windows. Finally, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck angrily kicked the monument. “Damn it, the fellow is right. We’re on the wrong trail. If the lance is in the cathedral, then it must be someplace where it could be hidden quickly. But where?”

  He let his eyes wander through the huge building and then stared furiously at Agnes.

  “Do you know what I think?” he hissed. “You’ve been lying to us all along. The lance isn’t in the vault, it’s probably not even in the cathedral. You said all that just to prolong your wretched life a little.” He took a step toward her. “But there’ll be no more of that.”

  “The lance is in the cathedral,” Agnes insisted. “I simply know it is. I felt it the last time I was here. It must be in this place, there’s no doubt of that. It was like it called out to me.”

  Friedrich looked mockingly at her. “You felt it . . . well, well. Then I recommend you feel something else, and quickly.” There was an unpleasant grin on his face, and the spark of insanity was back in his eyes. “You heard what I said just now. Unless you have a useful idea, Mathis will soon be keeping the skeleton of Emperor Rudolf company. Alive, or at least until the air in the stone sarcophagus runs out.”

  In the ensuing silence, Mathis thought he could hear the thudding of his own heart. Rigid with shock, he looked at the remnants of flesh on the face of the mummified Habsburg emperor. Then he straightened his back.

  Never. I’ll take some of these men to the grave with me first.

  “I’m not going to wait much longer.” The count grated his teeth. “Where is the lance, Agnes? Tell me, or your lover disappears into eternal darkness. One . . . two . . .”

  The dagger pressed against Mathis’s heel in the shaft of his boot. Gritting his teeth, he slowly bent down to reach for it.

  It was time to die with his head held aloft in pride.

  Agnes was paralyzed by horror. She gazed helplessly around the huge cathedral, hoping to find some clue to Johann’s hiding place for the lance. Had she been mistaken after all?

  But the mysterious phrase in the chamber at Trifels was not the only thing to have put her on that trail. Agnes had remembered going to Speyer with her father and entering the cathedral. She had thought then that someone was calling to her. At the time, she had supposed that someone had followed her into the building, but she was now firmly convinced that she had heard the call of her ancestors entombed here. Just as she had heard Constanza’s voice in that underground hall three days ago. Were her forebears trying to tell her something? Was that possible?

  The place where enmity is no more . . .

  “And three. My patience is exhausted,” said Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck, bringing her back from her thoughts. The count glanced with malice at Mathis, stooping as he knelt by the monument.

  “What do you think, Tanningen?” inquired Friedrich. “How long will that fellow last in the coffin? Two days? Three? Or will the air run out before that? I doubt whether anyone will hear him screaming under that heavy stone slab.”

  “If you want the lady to think of something, you’d better stop talking like that,” Melchior retorted. “How do you expect the poor girl to concentrate?”

  “I don’t care. All I know is that I’m tired of this game. Either she tells us now where the lance is, or we end this farce in my own way.”

  Closing her eyes, Agnes tried to blot out everything around her. Maybe then it would be possible to conjure up the voice that she had heard here before. Yet whatever it had been, it did not return. It could be her fear, or simply the presence of the others, but she sensed nothing within her. Only a void filling with panic at ever-increasing speed. Agnes fervently hoped to remember something, anything that her mother had told her back in the past. Scraps of sound flared up in her mind like lightning flashes.

  Slip in here under the blanket and listen to me . . . Long, long ago, my child, your ancestors had to run away . . . Johann of Brunswick had a lance with him, a mighty weapon that could defeat all the evil in this world . . . Constanza stayed in Annweiler with her child, and Johann told her he would take that lance to the p
lace where enmity is no more . . .

  Where enmity is no more . . . enmity is no more . . . enmity . . .

  Agnes blinked and saw Mathis reaching for his boot. She knew at once what he intended to do. Sadly, but at the same time with determination, he looked at her, his eyes dark and gleaming with moisture, like deep wells reflecting torchlight.

  Deep, dark wells . . . the place where enmity is no more . . .

  At the same moment an image came into her mind, an image that had been buried in some corner of her memory and only now came into view again.

  The cathedral font . . .

  “I know it!” she cried out. It sounded like a cry of pain. “I know it! I know what those strange words mean.” Mathis, astonished, straightened up. Evidently he had decided to wait before mounting his last attack. Friedrich and Melchior were also eyeing her curiously.

  “You mean you know where the Holy Lance is?” Melchior asked hopefully.

  Agnes shook her head. Her rib cage felt as if she had been running a long, fast race. “Not that, but at least I know that the cathedral is the right place. We were on the wrong track, yet it was also the right one. The place where enmity is no more.” She let out a clear, high laugh. “It’s not the imperial vault, it’s the sanctuary of the entire cathedral.”

  “The . . . sanctuary of the cathedral?” Friedrich frowned.

  “Well, why did Johann come to Speyer at that time?” Agnes swiftly went on. “He could have hidden the lance somewhere else. Did he just want to hide it where Constanza’s ancestors were entombed?” Agnes shook her head. “That was something that I didn’t understand properly at the time. And Mathis was right. Johann wouldn’t have had time to hide the lance in one of the tombs. Only now do I realize why Constanza’s husband really wanted to come to the cathedral.”

  “And why was that?” asked Melchior.

  Agnes took a deep breath. “At that time the Bishop of Speyer was a powerful man, almost as powerful as an elector. I read about that in the library at Trifels, and Father Tristan told me about it as well. The bishop had his own sphere of jurisdiction. Those who sought sanctuary with him were safe even from the emperor’s henchmen.”

  “The sanctuary of the cathedral,” Melchior groaned. “Of course. As far as I know, the principle still holds good. The border is out in the square in front of the cathedral.”

  Agnes smiled. “To be exact, at the place where we left our horses. Those who go beyond the cathedral font cannot be brought before any secular court. They are entirely in the hands of the bishop. I was thinking of that when I was here a year ago. Only not in connection with Johann, but for Mathis, who could have asked for sanctuary here as a wanted man.” She nodded firmly. “Johann did exactly that, he asked for asylum in the cathedral. This is the place where enmity is no more. He wanted to give the Holy Lance into the bishop’s care. As a prince of the church, the bishop would certainly have been interested in acquiring such a precious relic. Johann probably tried to strike a bargain: the Holy Lance in exchange for his life and the lives of his wife and child. And presumably that was why they had taken the lance from Trifels with them—as a pledge.”

  “But something went horribly wrong,” murmured Melchior. “Or Johann would not have been killed in Speyer.”

  “I suspect that the Habsburgs simply ignored the sanctuary of the cathedral. Or the bishop was bribed by the emperor to hand Johann over. We’ll never know.” Agnes sighed. “But at least we now know that we need to search a considerably larger area than we thought. The sanctuary covers the whole cathedral, and the other buildings. The bishop’s palace, the deanery, the cloisters, the outside chapels . . . Johann could have hidden the lance anywhere.”

  “And suppose this Johann of yours didn’t hide it at all, but the Habsburgs took it from him?” Melchior persisted.

  Agnes shook her head. “After he was dead, the Habsburgs had Constanza tortured for days. They wouldn’t have done that if they had found the lance. No, it is somewhere here.”

  “Forget it, Agnes,” Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck laughed contemptuously. “This is only another ruse to delay our search. Don’t you see?” He turned to Melchior. “She wants us to go on searching as long as possible, until morning comes and she can throw herself into the arms of some priest. You’re not falling for this story of hers, are you?”

  “It sounds not wholly implausible.” Melchior tugged the point of his beard. “The sanctuary of the church is still a popular method of escaping secular justice. It could be true that Johann asked the Bishop of Speyer for asylum. The bishop wielded great influence in the empire. So why not?” He shrugged. “And I don’t have a better idea at the moment. In God’s name let’s search the cathedral and its surroundings, then.” He raised a finger in admonition. “But not until dawn, only until four in the morning. If we have found nothing by then, I’ll declare our venture over, and you, Scharfeneck . . .” He paused, casting a sad, surreptitious glance at Agnes. “You can finally take your wife.”

  Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck nodded. “Until the hour of four, then. But that will definitely be the end.” He looked expectantly at his wife. “Well, where do we begin?”

  Once again Agnes closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Now that she knew she was on the right track, it was easier. She imagined Johann of Brunswick as she had so often seen him in her dreams. Only as an outline at first, then more and more distinctly, a young man emerged from the mists of her memory. He wore an old hauberk and a torn cloak, riding through the night and torrential rain, until at last he reached the walls of a city.

  The city of Speyer.

  ✦ ✦ ✦

  The dark walls tower up, wind and rain lash the willows, making their foliage look like the wet hair of giants. Johann knows the city; he has often been here as an envoy from Trifels. So he also knows the small hidden gate north of the harbor, for he has already slipped in through it once before. He hastily drops the reins of his horse, gives the animal a farewell pat, and then wades through reeds and marshy water meadows along the wall, always keeping out of sight of the guards. Sometimes he sinks to his waist in the mire, the sheath of his sword is muddy, his hauberk several times threatens to drag him down. In both hands, Johann holds aloft an object wrapped in a plain gray cloth. Everything else may get wet and dirty, but not the contents of that cloth.

  The Holy Lance.

  Johann hastily folds back the cloth to check yet again that the lance has come to no harm. It is intact, although the shaft has been missing for many centuries, and only the upper part has been preserved. The head of the lance has been forced apart at some time, so that there is a narrow gap between it and the remains of the shaft, closed again later with silver wire and a silver sleeve.

  There is a nail from the cross of Christ in the point of the lance.

  Johann knows that he has stolen the most important relic in Christendom. He murmurs a prayer that is carried away on the wind like dead leaves, asking God to forgive him someday for his sacrilege. The young knight has not acted out of greed or avarice, but solely to protect his family. He wants to exchange the lance for life and freedom, for the lives of his wife and his child. Johann wraps up the lance again and nods grimly, while the wind tugs at his wet hair. In a few minutes’ time he will have reached the place that offers him sanctuary.

  The place where enmity is no more.

  At last the small porch, overgrown with creepers and ivy, appears before him. He quietly gives the password, told to him by friends the day before. The door squeals open, and a burly guard admits him silently. On this side of the wall, the storm does not seem to be quite so strong. Johann looks cautiously around. It is dark night. A small church is hunched against the city wall like a scared dog. There is not a human soul in sight in the muddy streets. All the same, he remains watchful. He guesses that his enemies know what is going on. Where would he go if not to Speyer, the bishop’s own city? They are sure to be lying in wait for him here, but where?

  Bendi
ng low, Johann steals along the narrow, musty alleys of the city, where the walls of the houses on opposite sides of the street are sometimes only a little way apart. He avoids the large squares and keeps stopping to listen. He hears the mew of a cat, the shrill laughter of a whore, the muted chime of the cathedral bells. Johann’s heart beats wildly. Only a short way to go, and he will be safe. Can it be as easy as that? Is the protecting hand of God himself above him?

  At last he sees the empty cathedral square, with its well. A chain is stretched right across the square, on both sides of the cathedral font. Beyond it lies the sanctuary of the cathedral, beyond it he will be safe, in the care of the bishop of Speyer.

  Johann says a last quiet prayer, he kisses the Holy Lance in its cloth wrapping, then he runs. The rain lashes his face, the storm roars like a wild animal. One last leap, and he is on the other side of the chain. Johann can hardly believe his good fortune. All he has to do now is rouse the watchman, claim sanctuary, and when the bishop arrives in the morning . . .

  He stops short when he sees three mounted men near a side chapel of the cathedral. A fourth man is just leaving the bishop’s palace with a priest, and he hurries toward the other three. The priest, in red vestments, stands on the steps to give them his blessing with the sign of the cross and then hurries back through the wind and rain to the palace. Behind Johann, the chain rattles in the wind. Almost at the same time, the four strangers turn to him, and at that moment the knight knows that he has been betrayed.

  Johann winces. The men wear dark cloaks, but in the light of a torch he can see the red and white of the coat of arms they wear on their uniforms.

  Agents of the Habsburgs, hired assassins sent to kill him.

  Johann immediately turns and runs. He is a good swordsman, but there are four of them and they will not fight fair. They are cowardly bloodhounds, not knights, sent out for the sole purpose of eliminating him and taking possession of the Holy Lance. Johann knows that his own life is forfeit, but now he will at least ensure that no Habsburg ever sits rightfully on the imperial throne again.