But the expected touch did not come, and he grew slowly aware that the moans had ceased. Raising his head, he saw below him, not the clearing where his horse awaited, but the brook where he and Max and Hilde had paused that first day. Tied to a spindly oak that twisted from the bank of the stream stood two rouncies.
Max and Hilde were there, lacing a codpiece in place, tugging a skirt back down. Max brushed leaves and dirt and fir needles from Hilde’s coverslut, squeezing her breasts while he did.
Dietrich crawled backward, unseen. Max had been right. Sound did carry in the forest. Then, rising, he scrabbled back among the spruce, blundering from clearing to copse until fortune showed him the blazes, and he followed them to where he had left the palfrey.
The jennet he had seen there earlier was gone.
* * *
Since Max was returning already to the village, Dietrich headed his mount also homeward, happy that he need not proceed to the lazaretto. But, coming to a bend in the trail, the beast balked. Dietrich clamped the barrel with his thighs until the horse had bolted a few paces back toward the kiln. At that, it calmed somewhat and Dietrich spoke soothingly. The palfrey rolled wild, round eyes and whickered nervously.
“Be still sister horse,” he told her. Fitting the head-harness in place, he said, “Hans. Are you on the kiln trail?”
Only the rustling of pine needles and dry branches fell upon his ears. That, and the inevitable, distant chitterings of the Krenken, which, being so natural a sound, seemed more a part of the forest than had the amorous cries of Hilde Müller in the arms of Max Schweitzer.
“Come no nearer,” said the voice of the Heinzlmännchen in his ear.
Dietrich remained still. The sun was visible through the iron-gray lacework of trees, but stood already lower than he wished. “You bar my path,” Dietrich said.
“Gschert’s — artisans — want for two hundred shoe-lengths of copper wire. Know your kind the art of wire-drawing — question. It must be drawn to the fineness of a pin, with no cracks.”
Dietrich rubbed his chin. “Lorenz is a blacksmith. Copper may lie beyond his art.”
“So. Where finds one a coppersmith — question.”
“In Freiburg,” Dietrich said. “But copper is dear. Lorenz might do the task from charity, but not a Freiburg guildsman.”
“I will give you a copper brick we have mined from rocks near here. The smith may keep whatever is not used for the wire.”
“And this wire will further your departure?”
“Lacking it, we cannot leave. Prying the copper from the ore required only… heat. We have not the means to draw it. Dietrich, you do not have the sentence in your head to do this. I hear it in your words. You will not go to Free Town.”
“There are… risks.”
“So. There are then limits to this ‘charity’ of yours, to this rent you owe the Herr-from-the stars. When he returns, he will thrash those who failed to do his bidding.”
“No,” said Dietrich. “That is not how he rules. His ways are mysterious to men.” And what better proof than this encounter, he thought. He glanced once toward the clouds, as if he expected to see Jesus there, laughing. “Na. Give me the ingot and I will see to its drawing.”
But Hans would not approach him, and left the ingot on the trail.
* * *
The wagons set forth the next day across the plateau to the rendezvous point, where they were joined by the wagon from Niederhochwald. Thierry von Hinterwaldkopf commanded the three knights and Max’s fifteen armsmen. Eugen bore the Hochwald banner.
Others joined them along the way: one, from an imperial holding by Stag’s Leap and another from the manor of St. Oswald’s chapel. The chapter provided two more armsmen and Einhardt, the imperial knight, brought his junker and five more armsmen. Thierry, seeing his small force thus augmented, grinned. “’S Blood, I’d almost welcome a sally from Burg Falkenstein!”
* * *
From above the gorge, Dietrich heard that eerie whisper in which distant valleys speak — a patois formed from the wind through the naked branches and evergreen needles below, from the rushing brook cascading off the escarpment, from a choir of grasshoppers and other insects.
The wagon track switchbacked down the face of the Katerinaberg. Inhospitable patches of gray stone and barren ground alternated with copses of desolate, wind-shorn beeches. The road ahead would only a few hundred feet below them, but across insuperably steep pitches, so that Dietrich sometimes spied the vanguard coming from the other direction. Footpaths ran off in directions wagons could not follow. He saw ancient stairs carved into the stone hillside and wondered who had cut them?
The bottom, when they reached it, was a wild ravine, tangled with brush and toppled oaks, and flanked on both sides with great overhanging rocks and steep, wooded precipices. A rushing torrent, fed by waterfalls plunging from the heights, crashed and hissed over rocks down its center, turning to mud what little track the wagons had.
“There’s Stag’s Leap,” said Gregor, pointing to an outcropping that jutted out over the gorge. “The story is that a hunter chased a stag through the woods near here and the beast leapt from that crag over to the Breitnau side. You see how the valley pinches up here? Still, it was a wonderful leap, they say. The hunter was in such hot pursuit that he tried to follow, though with less happy results.”
* * *
Burg Falkenstein, high upon one of the precipices, held the gorge tight. Bartizans dotted the schildmauer like warts on a toad, and were slit by cruciform ballistaria to give openings for hidden archers. Sentries were silhouettes in the battlement’s crenels; their jibes rendered indistinct by distance. The escort feigned indifference, but they hefted their shields a little higher and kept a tighter grip on their pennoned lances.
“Those dogs won’t sally against knights,” Thierry said after the troop had passed with no more damage than the taunts. “Tough enough to take nuns or fat merchants, but they’d not stand fast in a real battle.”
At the mouth of the gorge, the stream calmed from torrent to murmuring brook and the narrow valley broadened into green meadows. On the heights above, a square tower commanded the view of the countryside. “Falkenstein’s watch-tower,” Max explained. “His burgraf here signals the castle when a party worth plundering passes by. Then Falkenstein sallies forth to block their advance while the men in the watch-tower come out to block the retreat.”
* * *
In the broader, softer Kirchgartner Valley, the track from Falkenstein Gorge met the Freiburg High Road. The Hochwalders circled their wagons for the night and built a fire. Thierry told off men to stand watch. “Safe enough to encamp here,” Max told Dietrich. “If von Falkenstein sallies on this side, he must answer to the Graf of Urach, and that means Pforzheim and the whole Baden family.”
“In olden times,” Dietrich told Gregor as they ate their evening meal, “all caravans were like this. The merchants were armed with bows and swords and were sworn to each other by oaths.”
“Were they?” asked Gregor. “Like an order of knights?”
“Very like. It was called a hans or, in the French, a ‘company,’ because they ‘shared bread.’ The schildrake carried the banner at the head of the band — as Eugen does — and the hansgraf exercised authority over his brother-merchants.”
“Like Everard.”
“Doch. Save that caravans in those days were much larger and traveled from fair to fair.”
“Those fairs must have been something to see. Sometimes I wish I lived in olden times. Were robber knights more common than now?”
“No, but there were Vikings from the north; Magyars from the east; and Saracens from their stronghold in the Alps.”
“Saracens in the Alps?”
“At Garde-Frainet. They preyed upon merchants and pilgrims crossing between Italy and France.”
“And now we must go to the Holy Land to fight them!”
Thierry overheard and grunted without humor. “If the Sultan feels lik
e attacking me, I know how to defend myself; but if he leaves me alone, I’ll not bother him. Besides, if God is everywhere, why go to Jerusalem to find him?”
Dietrich agreed. “That’s why we now elevate the Host after the Consecration. So folk will know that God is everwhere.”
“Of that, I would not know,” Thierry continued, “but if Jerusalem was so holy, why did so many return grown wicked?” He tossed his head toward the mouth of the gorge. “You’ve heard the story about him?”
Dietrich nodded. “The devil freed his ancestor from the Saracens at the price of his soul.”
Thierry wiped the juices from his plate with a crust of bread. “There is more to the tale.” He put the plate aside and his junker took it for cleaning. The others at the fire clamored for the tale, so the knight wiped hands on knees, looked around the circling faces, and told them.
“The first Falkenstein was Ernst von Schwaben, a goodly knight endowed with all manly virtues — save that Heaven had denied him a son to carry his name to posterity. He took to cursing Heaven over it, which sorely afflicted his pious wife.
“A voice in his dreams told him that to make peace with Heaven, he must take pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The proud Graf was horrified at this terrible penance; but at last he smothered his own desires and departed with Barbarossa on the second great kingly pilgrimage. Before setting forth, he broke his wedding ring and, keeping half, told his wife that if he had not returned in seven years, she should consider their ties no longer binding.
“Na. The German army came to grief and Red-beard drowned; but Ernst pressed on to the Holy Land, where his sword became renowned among the infidels. In one battle, he was captured by the sultan. With each new moon, his captor offered him release if only he would embrace the religion of Mahomet. Naturally, he refused.
“So passed the years until one day, the sultan, impressed with his chivalry and fortitude, released him. He wandered through the desert, always toward the setting sun; until, one night as he slept, the Devil came to him.”
“Hah!” said Gregor in the firelight, “I knew the fiend was in it somewhere.” The serfs who had driven the estate wagons crossed themselves at the dreadful name.
“The Wicked One reminded him that the seventh year would expire on the morrow and his wife would wed his cousin. But he promised to bring him home before the morning, and that he would not lose his soul — provided he slept throughout the journey. So it was that he made his wicked compact.
“The Evil One changed himself into a lion which, when the knight mounted, flew off high over land and sea. Terrified, he closed his eyes and slept — until a falcon’s screech roused him. He looked down horrified, where far below stood his castle. A marriage procession was entering. With a wild roar, the Evil Spirit dashed him down and fled.
“During the banquet, the Grafin Ida noticed this stranger who never turned his sorrowful eyes from her face. When he had emptied his goblet, he handed it to a servant, to present to his mistress. When she glanced inside the cup, she saw… half of a ring.”
Everyone gusted a satisfied sigh. Thierry continued.
“Thrusting her hand into her bosom, she pulled forth the other half of the ring and threw it joyfully into the goblet. Thus were the two halves united, and the wife enfolded in her husband’s arms. A year later she bore him a child. And that is why the family puts a falcon on their arms.”
Everard said, “One almost understands how a man might strike such a bargain.”
“Always the Evil One holds out a lesser good,” said Dietrich, “hoping to turn our hearts from the greater. But a man cannot lose his soul by a trick.”
“Besides,” said Thierry, looking with satisfaction over his audience, “Ernst could have been a saint, and Philip would still be a robber.”
“That was a romantic age,” Gregor suggested. “Those tales I used to hear of Red-beard and that English king…”
“Lion-heart,” said Dietrich.
“They knew how to name their kings back then! And Good King Louis. And the noble Saracen who was friend and foe of the Lion-heart, what was his name?”
“Saladin.”
“A most chivalrous knight,” Thierry commented, “for all that he was an infidel.”
“And where are they now?” said Dietrich. “Only names in songs.”
Thierry drank from his goblet and handed it to his junker to fill again. “A song is enough.”
Gregor turned his head up. “But it really ought to be…”
“What?”
The mason shrugged. “I don’t know. Glorious. To save Jerusalem.”
“Ja. It is.” Dietrich was silent a moment, so that Gregor looked over at him. “The first who took the cross did so from piety. The Turks had destroyed the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and barred our pilgrims from the shrines. They were not so tolerant as the Arabs, who held the Holy City before them. But I think many went also for land, and the vision grew soon tarnished. The legates could not find enough volunteers, so that Outremer lacked reinforcement. The Regensburgers assaulted those who took up the cross; and the cathedral chapter at Passau preached a ‘holy war’ against the papal legate, who had come recruiting.”
Gregor threw his head back and laughed. “Stag’s Leap.”
“What?”
“Why, the knights, after chasing the Saracens out of the Alps, forgot to stop and tried to leap all the way to Outremer!”
* * *
The Hochwalders entered Freiburg by the Swabian Gate, where they paid the Graf’s tollkeeper an obole for each hide and four pfennigs for each barrel of wine. Walpurga’s honey was taxed at four pfennigs the sauma. “Everything is taxed,” Gregor grumbled as they passed through the portal, “except the good pastor.”
The party entered a small square called Oberlinden, and so to the tavern called The Red Bear, where Everard arranged for lodgings, “although you, pastor, will probably stay with the chapter at the Dear Lady Church.”
“Always tight with the pfennig,” cried Gregor, who had pulled a casket of clothing from the wagon and set it beside the door to the inn.
“Thierry and Max have taken their men to the schlossberg,” the steward said, indicating the stronghold perched on the hill east of the town. “Bad enough to share a bed with the likes of this gof,” wagging a thumb at the mason, “but the fewer bodies we cram into our room, the more comfortable we’ll all be. Gregor, walk the priest to the minster and pay the guild for a stall in the market. Find where our wagons are to go.” He tossed Gregor a small leather pouch and the mason caught it jingling in mid-air.
Gregor laughed and, taking Dietrich by the elbow, steered him from the inn’s courtyard. “I remember when Everard was just a simple peasant like the rest of us,” Gregor said. “Now he beats the kettledrum.” He looked around and spotted the bell tower rising over the roofs of the modest buildings on the north side of Oberlinden. “This way.”
They breasted a flood of tradesmen, soldiers, guild masters in rich coats of marten; apprentices rushing about their masters’ business; miners from Ore-chest Mountain that gave the town its lead and silver wealth; country knights gawping at the buildings and the bustle; Breisgau spinsters toting baskets of thread for delivery to the weavers; a man wearing the dank smell of the river and balancing a long pole on his shoulder from which dangled a multitude of dripping fish; a “gray monk” crossing the square toward the Augustiner.
The town had been founded in the great silver rush, a hundred and fifty years before. An oath-band of merchants had taken lots fifty shoes by a hundred at an annual rent of a pfennig each, for which each settler received hereditary tenancy, use of the commons and the market, exemption from tolls, and the right to elect the maier and the schultheiss. The liberties had drawn serf and free from the countryside.
From Salt Street, they passed through a narrow alley to Shoemaker Street, pungent with leather and uncured hides. Small rivulets flowed through channels alongside the streets, a restful and cleansing sound.
&nb
sp; “Such a great city!” Gregor cried. “Each time I come down here it seems grown bigger.”
“Not so great as Köln,” said Dietrich searching the passing faces for the first widening eyes of recognition, “nor Strassburg.”
Gregor shrugged. “Big enough for me. Did you know Auberede and Rosamund? No, that was before you came. They were serfs who held a manse in common near Unterbach, which they farmed to a gärtner — I have forgotten his name. He ran off to the ‘wild east,’ became a ‘cowknight’ on one of those big cattle drives. I suppose he lives now in a ‘new town’ under Flemish Rights and battles the ferocious Slavs. What was I saying?”
“Auberede and Rosamund?”
“Ach, ja. Well, those two were hard workers, and cunning. At least Auberede was cunning. My father always counted his fingers after he shook her hand. Hah! While the gärtner farmed their land, they dressed some vines belonging to Heyso — that was Manfred’s brother, who held the Hochwald then. They talked him into granting them custody of a storeroom near Oberbach, as well as some of the vines for a half-share in the increase. After a few years, they’d done well enough that he granted them the whole thing as a life income — manse, vineyard, storeroom, plus a wagon and some Flemish horses! Finally, weary of working for half-shares, they convinced Heyso to convert the grant to a lease. They purchased a house in Freiburg with the increase; and one day they moved here with no more farewell than that.”
“Did they ever buy their freedom?”
The mason shrugged. “Heyso never went after them and after a year and a day, they were free. He farmed their strips to Volkmar, as was his right — it was salland, after all; but the women still send a man of theirs to tend the vineyard under the lease, so I think everyone is content with the arrangement.”
“One serf less,” said Dietrich, “is one more manse escheated to the lord. Coin is valued more than hand-service. The folk on a manor were once called a familia. Now, all is money and profit.”
Eifelheim Page 17
