He will hide the Holy Lance somewhere. He will leave it in the hands of God.
Breathing heavily, he reaches the cathedral, runs in, and hastily looks around. Dark columns, the monument to the dead emperors at the front, beyond the choir screen, altars lying in shadow to the right and the left . . . where can he hide the lance? In only a few moments’ time his executioners will be in the cathedral.
Where?
Leaning back against a column, he scans the nave again.
Where?
When he has found the hiding place at last, and left the lance in it, the knight breathes deeply. Then he climbs up on the monument of the imperial vault and draws his long sword. In his mud-spattered shoes, he stands on the tombstone of the man whose family has besmirched the honor of the house of Hohenstaufen forever. Now at least Johann’s blood will mark the tomb of Rudolf von Habsburg.
“Constanza,” Johann whispers. “For you and for our child.”
He kisses his sword and waits for his enemies to attack.
✦ ✦ ✦
Agnes opened her eyes and stared at the monument in front of her. For a moment she thought she still saw Johann standing up there, a silent prayer on his lips, his sword raised, ready to fight. But the picture quickly faded, and instead she saw the three landsknechts, who had begun pushing the stone lid back on top of the sarcophagus. Friedrich, Melchior, and Mathis stood at the foot of the monument with their eyes fixed on her. She felt dizzy and had to lean on the column behind her.
“Well?” Friedrich asked. “Where’s the lance? Talk, woman.”
“He was here,” Agnes gasped. “Johann was here in the cathedral. I saw him.”
Melchior, fascinated, pressed his hands together, an expression of childlike astonishment on his face. “Did you see the whites of her eyes?” he murmured. “The countess saw a vision. Like a martyr, like the great Hildegard of Bingen. What a song this adventure would make. A shame that I’ll never be able to tell the tale.”
“Mere hocus-pocus,” the count snapped. “All I want to know is whether she’s thought of a possible hiding place. Unlike you, I haven’t the slightest wish to spend the next few hours digging up half the city. The sanctuary of the cathedral runs all the way to the eastern city wall.”
“He hid the lance here, I’m sure of it,” Agnes insisted. “It must be someplace near the monument.”
“There’s nothing near the monument but pews and columns,” retorted Friedrich. “No one can hide anything there. At least, not for long.”
Mathis snorted, and looked angrily at the two men beside him. “If you want Agnes to find this lance for you, at least cut her bonds. We can’t run away from you anyway.”
Melchior took out his dagger and cut Agnes free. She rubbed her hands to get the blood running through them again.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, while the minstrel continued to look at her as if she were a ghost.
“A martyr,” he repeated monotonously. “A genuine martyr.” Something seemed to be working powerfully within him.
Agnes leaned against the column and felt the cold of the stone creeping along her back. Once again, she was overcome by the feverish dizziness that she had sensed before in the dungeon cell at Trifels and in the hall with the pictures of emperors beyond it. Narrowing her eyes, she tried again to imagine Johann standing here in the cathedral over two hundred years ago, maybe leaning against this very column.
Only a few moments, he had only a few moments . . .
Agnes let her eyes wander over the dark altars in the side chapels, the cathedral windows, the many columns reaching all the way to the steps at the south side that led down to the crypt from which she had run headlong last year. Where those steps began there was a small picture at waist height that she noticed only now. It had been hastily executed and showed a female figure. One of the builders of the cathedral might have engraved it there in the past, perhaps as a sign of his love for a girl who, like him, had turned to dust long ago. Could Johann have seen that picture and thought of his wife? A shudder ran through Agnes. Had Constanza loved Johann as she loved Mathis?
Her sense of vertigo was so strong now that she slowly slid down against the column; it was as if the bare stone were comforting her. She felt at one with the cathedral. As in Trifels Castle, she seemed to feel its breath and hear its voice.
Welcome, Agnes . . . Accept my gift . . .
At that moment, her fingers felt a gap in the stone behind her. It was at exactly the place where the curve of the rounded column met the angular base of an arch. Almost by itself, her hand slipped into the gap as she gazed at the picture on the stone.
Only a few moments . . . here . . . he was here . . . Johann was standing by this column . . .
Her fingers felt a piece of fabric, wrapped around something hard. She tugged, but it was wedged tight. She pulled harder, and the thing inside the fabric slowly worked loose.
“What are you doing?” asked her husband, who was pacing impatiently up and down the nave. “Uprooting that column by yourself with the power of the angels? All this drivel about martyrdom has gone to your head.”
He stopped as Agnes, with a grunt of release, at last brought the bundle out of the gap. It was stained and dirty with stone dust and mold. Small pieces of stone came loose and crumbled to the floor. The object wrapped in the cloth was about the length of a man’s forearm.
An iron point showed at its tip.
“My God,” Melchior breathed. “The Holy Lance. This is a sign from God. She has actually found it.”
Mathis and the other men had now turned their attention to Agnes. They watched in silence as she knelt down and slowly unfolded the cloth.
It contained the upper part of a lance. The tip was notched and had been broken; wire held it together, and a silver sleeve had been added. There was an inscription engraved on it. Agnes whispered its first words like a magic spell.
“Clavus Dominicus. The nail of the Lord.”
Melchior von Tanningen knelt down and made the sign of the cross. The three landsknechts beside him looked as if the strangely solemn moment had touched even their dark hearts. Only Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck shook his head skeptically.
“Is that supposed to be the genuine Holy Lance?” he rasped. “I’d have expected something fancier. Why the devil didn’t Johann take the damned imperial crown instead? At least it has jewels in it.”
Melchior looked at him indignantly. “What are you talking about? The Holy Lance is worth many, many times more than all the jewels in the world put together. It symbolizes the most wonderful story ever told.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? How stupid do you take me for, Tanningen?” Friedrich shrugged his shoulders and heaved a deep sigh. Suddenly his mouth twisted like he was enjoying a poor joke.
“But we didn’t have to desecrate the imperial vault just for the sake of a beautiful story,” he went on, smiling. “So don’t suppose I’m a fool. Because above all, the lance proves that, ever since Johann stole it, the Habsburgs have wrongfully occupied the throne. No lance, no coronation, right? They’ve resorted to a fake for centuries.” He assumed an innocent expression as his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “I’ve done some thinking over these last two days, and changed my plans accordingly. What do you think the emperor would pay to ensure that the original doesn’t fall into the wrong hands?”
Melchior von Tanningen looked at the count in surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t understand . . .”
“You don’t understand? Then you’d better ask the revered Emperor Rudolf von Habsburg himself,” replied Friedrich, giving his men a sign. “We’ve left the place next to him free for you.”
A crossbow clicked, and with an expression of boundless astonishment Melchior stared at the bolt that suddenly protruded from his left shoulder. Marten put the weapon back in the sack of tools, where it had been hidden until now. Beside him Roland casually held another crossbow in his hands.
“You . . . you’ll r
egret this, Scharfeneck . . .” the minstrel gasped, drawing his sword. “You miserable . . . traitor . . .”
“Coming from you, that almost sounds like a compliment, Tanningen.” Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck raised his hat as if in a final greeting. Then he once again looked greedily at the lance that Agnes was holding, while his three landsknechts drew their short swords.
“Roland, Hans, Marten, put that blue-eyed idiot out of his misery,” he ordered. “And then place him and the other idiot in the sarcophagi. It’s time to bring this farce to an end.”
His face expressionless, Roland aimed the crossbow at the startled Mathis and pulled the trigger.
Hearing the whir of the bolt, however, Mathis instinctively threw himself forward. In contrast to the unsuspecting Melchior, he had seen the weapon a split second earlier, and that saved his life. The bolt ricocheted from a column above him, chipping out a piece of stone before clattering to the floor somewhere in the dark. Cursing, Roland threw the crossbow away; there was no time to reload it. His hand went to his sword belt.
That was what Mathis had been waiting for. He snatched the dagger from his boot and, with a yell, threw himself at his much larger adversary, who was taken by surprise and staggered a few steps back.
You wanted your chance, Mathis told himself. Here it is, so use it, because you won’t get another.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marten and Hans both fencing with the badly injured Melchior.
“Damn it, what useless fools you are!” Friedrich raged. “You’re meant to kill the pair of them, not challenge them to duels.”
With all the pent-up fury in him, Mathis thrust with his dagger, but it could not penetrate his adversary’s hauberk. The burly landsknecht brushed the dagger aside like a toy and pushed Mathis away from him. Puffing and panting, he drew his short sword, the kind that landsknechts used in close combat. Mathis ducked under it, took a leap, and hit his back painfully on the side of the imperial vault, which cut off his way of retreat. He waited for the next attack, with his dagger in his trembling hand, but he knew that ultimately he had no chance against the longer blade. In addition, and unlike Mathis himself, Roland had learned to kill, and was also far superior to him physically. With an evil grin, the landsknecht raised his arm to strike a mortal blow. Then he ran at Mathis.
“You little bastard,” he hissed. “Should have been dead long a—”
At that moment, Mathis threw the dagger.
It was a final act of desperation, but this time fate itself seemed to guide his hand. The blade flew straight as an arrow through the air, burying itself in the base of his opponent’s throat, just where the hauberk ended. Carried on by his own impetus, the landsknecht kept running for a moment longer, but then blood streamed from his wound, and he collapsed, gurgling. He reached with both hands for the dagger in his throat, and finally fell over forward, reaching out to Mathis in a last, desperate attempt. Then he lay twitching on the cathedral floor, a large dark pool forming around him.
Paralyzed with horror, Mathis stared at his dying adversary. Beside him, Melchior, now as pale as a corpse, still battled the two other landsknechts. The shaft of the crossbow bolt stuck a finger’s length out of the minstrel’s shoulder, and a red patch had formed on his elegant velvet doublet. He wouldn’t last much longer.
Mathis hesitated. Should he hurry to the aid of the man who had betrayed them so contemptibly? Or should he try to escape with Agnes? Where was she, anyway? And where, for heaven’s sake, was the count? His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck bellowing in fury somewhere in the nave. In the darkness of the cathedral, Mathis now saw Agnes, carrying the lance, running among the columns to the west door.
Don’t go to the western porch, Mathis thought. They locked that door. You’ll run into a trap!
But Agnes doubled back on her own tracks and ran to a small door on the left of the west porch. The count followed her.
“Agnes!” Mathis cried. “Wait for me!”
In a fraction of a second, he had decided to leave the severely wounded Melchior alone with his two opponents, although he realized that if the minstrel lost the fight, he and Agnes would soon be pursued by two enraged landsknechts. With Friedrich, that made three opponents, all well armed. Nonetheless, Mathis couldn’t leave Agnes on her own.
Not with that madman.
He raced to the small door through which Agnes and Friedrich had just disappeared. Steps led up to the second floor, and he heard the furious cries of Friedrich coming from it.
“Stop, you bitch! The lance, give me the lance.”
Mathis reached a large hall with a broad table, several chairs, and a pile of ropes in a corner. Mathis assumed that the ropes must belong to the belfry somewhere above him. A tiny door to the right stood open, and he heard hasty footsteps on the other side of it.
“Agnes!” shouted Mathis once more, and his voice echoed through the vault of the cathedral. “Agnes!”
Crossing the hall, he hurried through the door. A narrow wooden staircase led steeply up. At regular intervals he passed windows standing open, the cool night air blowing through them.
Once again he heard footsteps, more muted this time. After more climbing, Mathis came to a chest-high opening that looked out into the night. The decaying wooden staircase went on above him, probably leading to the top of one of the front towers. Mathis listened, but he could hear nothing now. Where had the two of them gone? Through this opening or on up into the tower? Finally he decided to go through the low exit into the fresh air. If Agnes and the count were in the tower, he would presumably have heard their voices.
Gusts of wind ruffled Mathis’s hair as he stepped out into a narrow gallery that ran to left and right of him, going all around the cathedral. It had narrow columns at regular intervals, and he clung convulsively to them. The walkway behind them was just wide enough for a single man to walk along it. All the same, Mathis dared not look down for too long. Even a brief glance had been enough to show him that it was some ninety feet above the ground. He looked straight ahead and wondered desperately which way to go, when he heard a scream from his right.
Ducking down, Mathis ran along behind the columns, while the first faint light of the morning sun showed in the east beyond the cupola crossing. The cathedral galleries, towers, and roofs were still in deep darkness.
When Mathis turned a corner, he suddenly saw the count not very far away from him. He was standing by the parapet and looking up, to where a trembling figure stood atop the wall, clinging to one of the slender columns, only a hand’s breadth away from the abyss below.
Agnes.
“My God,” whispered Mathis. “Don’t jump—just don’t jump!”
He stared in horror at his love, who was about to fall from Speyer Cathedral.
Agnes was trying to fight down her fear. She gripped the column with one hand, while with the other she held the stained cloth in which the Holy Lance was wrapped. A brief glance showed her that the sloping slate roof was more than fifteen feet below her. She felt nauseated.
When the landsknechts had fallen on Melchior and Mathis, she had initially stayed where she was, standing by the imperial monument, but then Friedrich had suddenly made for her, and she had rushed away without stopping to think. Only just in time did she remember that the west door was locked. So she decided on one of the front two towers of the cathedral, and that way ultimately brought her to this narrow gallery. Friedrich gained on her as she fled. When Agnes could almost feel him breathing down her neck, she had finally jumped up on the parapet, and as she stood there now she held the lance out into the faint morning twilight.
“Don’t come a step closer,” she gasped, “or I’ll let go of it.”
The count stopped and looked down, assessing the distance. Finally he shrugged.
“The lance will fall on the roof, where I’ll retrieve it later. So let go of it, and then I can devote myself entirely to you.” His mouth twisted in an unpl
easant smile. “You have no idea how long I’ve been looking forward to that.”
“You’re crazy, Friedrich,” Agnes pleaded. “Come to your senses. I’m still your wife.”
“A wife who has betrayed me. A wife whom I once loved and desired, but who was a great disappointment to me.” Friedrich shook his head regretfully. “I hoped for so much from you, Agnes. You were so clever, so well read, almost as much in love with the old stories as I am. I’m sure we could have found the Norman treasure together. We could have—”
“There is no Norman treasure, Friedrich! Can’t you see that?” Agnes forced herself a little closer to the abyss. Anything was better than getting within reach of this madman. “It was never more than a dream of yours,” she implored him. “Yes, the treasure may once have been at Trifels, but then the Staufers took it back to Apulia. It’s probably been scattered to the four winds by now. Come to your senses.” She cast him a glance of desperation. “I beg you, take the lance and get out of my life at long last.”
The count pouted like a sulky child. “The treasure does exist,” he said. “And I’ll find it. You can’t talk me out of that. Not you and not my miserly father, damn him. The treasure is somewhere at Trifels Castle. But I’ll need money to find all the chests containing it, and salvage them, a great deal of money. And the emperor will give me that money in return for the true lance. So hand it over . . .”
He took another step. At that very moment, Agnes saw a figure at the corner of the gallery beginning to rush forward. Agnes cried out in surprise. She saw only too late that it was Mathis, on his way to attack her husband. She slipped on the parapet, damp as it as with morning dew, staggered once, and then fell from the gallery with her arms flailing in the air. The lance slipped out of her hands and fell on the sloping slate roof, where it slowly slid down and was finally caught in the gutter.
The Castle of Kings Page 66
