by J. K. Swift
“Of course, my lord,” Gissler said. He could not believe what he was hearing. “Thank you.”
Leopold pointed at him. “I told you before. Our futures are entwined Gissler. You serve the Habsburg line well, and we will raise you up from the crowd.”
Thirteen horses! All manner of thoughts ran through Gissler’s mind. He saw himself driving his herd onto his brother’s filthy pig farm and introducing himself. Then he would take Hugo and his daughter Sara with him to his own estate, where he would give his brother a job. Together they would rebuild the Gissler name. But before that, Gissler would have to hire one of the best farriers he could afford. He knew a fair bit about handling horses but almost nothing when it came to breeding them. But with a good farrier to tend the herd, in time, Gissler was sure he would have the most respected horse farm in the Aargau.
Caught up in his own daydreaming, he realized the Duke had just asked him something.
“Gissler? Did you hear what I said?”
“I am sorry my lord. My head is still shaken up from the fight this morning.”
Leopold nodded. “Your face does tell a story. I wish I were there to see it. You said the four men you sent into the woods were all hanging from trees when you found them?”
Gissler nodded. “And their eyes were cut out.”
Leopold sighed. “A nasty habit Melchthal picked up from Landenberg. I told the Vogt to be careful what he teaches these peasants.”
“Judging from the tracks, I would wager it was six men that got them.”
“And you followed them?”
“For a half hour, my lord. Then the tracks started crossing and doubling back on themselves. The men got spooked in the woods, and I did not want to walk into an ambush and lose any more, so I gave up the chase.”
Leopold smiled. “And that is why I sent you this time instead of Landenberg. He would have chased Noll and his men over a cliff. The preservation of an army is often more important than victory. I appreciate your reasoning.”
The praise was a little too sweet for Gissler’s ears so he changed the topic. “What would you have me do now, my lord? Return to the Kussnacht?”
Leopold glanced at the scroll clutched in Gissler’s hand. “In a hurry to inspect some horse flesh are you? I am afraid you will have to wait another day or two. I have some business to finish here, but then you will accompany me back to Habsburg. In the meantime, stay near. I may need you.”
Gissler bowed, “As you wish.”
Leopold dismissed Gissler and after the newly mounted twelve-foot doors closed behind him, he turned to his scribe.
“Get the manuscript and meet me at the dungeons in one hour. Bring a priest and one of my judges. Be sure Judge Furst knows nothing of tonight’s proceedings.”
Bernard bent his grey head and scurried from the room, looking like a nursemaid who had left her child unattended for too long.
Chapter 29
THE YOUNG BOY had pressed himself up so tightly against the wall in the far corner of the cell that Pirmin, half blinded by his swollen eyes, thought he was a stone at first.
“No need to fear me boy. It is your jailers who wish you ill. Not I.”
His throat, dry as rock dust, made Pirmin’s voice come out as little more than a rasp and did little to reassure the boy.
Pirmin tried his best to look as harmless as a seven-foot giant covered in blood chained hand and foot to a wall could. When that did not work, he shook his shackled arms to demonstrate he was going nowhere. This seemed to relax the boy a little, and he lowered himself into a squat but kept a watchful eye on Pirmin.
Pirmin’s chains had enough play that he could stand or sit, but neither comfortably. The beating he had suffered at the hands of Gissler and his soldiers had left him bloodied and sore, but he had known worse. His main concern was the sword wound to his shoulder. Although the bleeding had stopped, there was no way for him to clean the wound. Being an ex-Hospitaller, that thought disturbed him as he glanced around the filthy cage he and the boy shared.
“What would be your name lad?”
The boy eased himself down onto a pile of blackened straw.
“You can talk to me, or just listen to me. Either way suits me fine,” Pirmin said. “I suppose the bastards already got your tongue then, eh?”
“My name is Matthias,” the boy finally said.
“Is it now? Well, a good name that one. Right from the Holy Book itself.”
“You talk funny,” Matthias said.
Pirmin started. He turned his better eye toward the boy and looked closely. He wondered if the boy was a trick of the mind, like when men saw an oasis in the desert. Perhaps he was hurt worse than he thought. Maybe even dead.
“What did you say?”
“Your words, you say them strange.”
Thomas had told him the very same thing when they had first met. The memories of the long march came to Pirmin and he smiled, grateful to have them. For a moment they took him away from his dank cell and the pain wracking his body.
“A good friend said those same words to me when I was about your age.”
“What happened to him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he dead?”
“No. Why would you say that?”
The boy shrugged. Pirmin grunted and changed the topic. “Tell me what you did to land in here Mathias.”
“Why should I?” The boy looked at Pirmin and stuck out his jaw. Pirmin noticed the beginning of a black eye and the remains of a handprint on the side of his face.
“Because you and me are going to be friends. Whether you like it or not.”
Mathias squinted at the big man across the dark cell. “I stole three bottles of wine,” he said.
“Wine?” Pirmin started laughing, but forced himself to stop because his ribs hurt something fierce. “Thought you were going to say bread, or a chicken, or something sensible. But wine? A lad like you is too young for wine. Who was it for?”
“I am plenty old enough. I was nine at winter’s end. And I drank a whole half before the Duke’s men found me.” He puffed out his skinny chest and sneered at Pirmin.
Pirmin laughed, and this time he welcomed the pain.
Chapter 30
THOMAS RODE west from the village of Schwyz until he hit the road leading south from Brunnen. A wave of anger passed through him as he thought of how much time he could save if only his ferry were operational. A half day at least. For now he would need to turn south at Brunnen and follow the road all the way to the end of the lake. From there he would curve around its lower arm until the road turned north once again towards Seelisberg.
It was well after dark by the time he came to the overgrown path branching off the main road that led into the grove where Seraina had her cabin. Thomas never would have found it if Sutter had not given him detailed directions.
The path itself was virtually invisible, but it was marked with a menhir, a man-sized, cylindrical rock moved to this location centuries ago by people long since forgotten. Some said the menhir were markers that warned of places best avoided, others said they were waystones that helped the dead pass from this world into the next.
Thomas dismounted and set flint and steel to the wick of his lantern. Pushing aside some low-hanging branches, and holding the lantern aloft before him, he led Sutter’s sturdy mountain pony into the bushes. Even though Thomas believed the stories surrounding menhir were nothing more than ridiculous Pagan beliefs belonging to another time, he found some measure of comfort in how his horse plunged onto the dark path without hesitation.
Fifteen minutes later the path branched off in three directions, forcing Thomas to choose one. Minutes later it branched again, and the trails seemed narrower. Another thirty minutes and Thomas was forced to admit he was lost.
At some point he had become turned around, and was no longer sure in which direction the road lay. Without the sun as a reference point he had no way of knowing. He slapped his open palm against the rou
gh bark of a tree, one of many that crowded his path, and cursed himself for being so careless.
Thomas realized he had no hope now of stumbling upon Seraina’s cabin in the darkness, so he hung his lantern on a high branch and began scrounging for firewood. He would have to wait until morning.
Some time later, with his horse unsaddled and hobbled nearby, he huddled in front of his campfire. He rubbed his hands together and when he looked up a figure stood before him on the other side of the flames.
Startled, Thomas jumped to his feet, drew his knife and took a step back from the fire. Unfortunately, a low line of saplings tripped him up. With a yelp he crashed over backwards and landed in the undergrowth.
Lying on his back, with plants crisscrossing all around him like a spider’s web, he heard a woman’s surprised laugh.
“Seraina?”
He was answered by more laughter and finally, when she had herself under control, Seraina said, “Oh, Thomas. I am sorry, but the look on your face was wonderful. Something I shall never forget.”
Thomas sat up from his mattress of ferns and Seraina, after stifling another giggle, held out an arm and helped him to his feet. In her other arm she held a wool blanket.
“I thought you might need this tonight,” she said. “And when you failed to turn up at my door, for some reason or another, I decided to come to you.” Her eyes glistened in the dark with playful mischief, and Thomas was reminded of tales of men being seduced by beautiful creatures of the Fey.
He took the blanket, mumbling his gratitude, and for the first time in many hours felt himself relax. He had found Seraina, or rather, she had found him, and looking at her reflected in the flickering light of the fire, he felt a great weight lift. Then he remembered why he had come.
“Seraina, I need to find Noll. He and Pirmin are in trouble.”
The playfulness in her eyes faded, and as sorry as Thomas was to see it go, the concern for his friend took precedence.
“Well look no further ferryman,” a voice called out from the darkness, and this time Seraina jumped as high as Thomas. Her hand latched onto his forearm and stayed there.
Noll slipped out of the woods and walked towards them. “Noll, if I did not know better, I would say you were spying on us,” Seraina said.
“I wish I had time for that,” Noll said, stopping in front of them. He dropped his pack near the fire and leaned some sticks against it to shield the light. “Your fire is inviting every wanderer on the road for miles around.”
He avoided looking at Thomas. There was more movement behind Noll, and Vex wandered out of the woods. He made a circle around the campsite, hot on the trail of some forest creature, and then came to sit at Noll’s feet. Seraina’s nails bit into Thomas’s forearm.
Thomas looked down and something different about the dog caught his eye. The fur around his mouth seemed much darker than he remembered. He glanced at the dark woods, expecting Pirmin to come bursting through at any moment.
“He is not coming, ferryman,” Noll said, shaking his head.
Thomas looked back at Vex’s mouth, and in the flaring firelight realized it was lined in dried blood. A lot of blood.
If Seraina did not still have her hand on his arm, he would have killed Noll where he stood.
“Where is Pirmin?”
Chapter 31
THE JAILER, a compact, stoop-shouldered man with a tired face came for Pirmin and the boy that evening. Six Habsburg men-at-arms accompanied him; stern, disciplined soldiers who methodically locked Pirmin in a set of walking irons and then unchained him from the wall. As they hammered the bolts into place on his ankle cuffs, Pirmin eyed the jailer. He squinted and tried to bring his puffed up eyes into focus. He knew the man from somewhere.
“Heller. That your name? We met at Sutter’s in the Spring.”
The jailer raised his head and straightened up slowly, like a man with a secret who had just been found out.
“Was hoping you forgot,” he said.
“I never forget someone I drink with,” Pirmin said. “Unless he joins in late and I am so far into my cups there is no climbing out.”
Heller started to say something but was interrupted by the shrill hammering of a soldier driving a pin into place on one of Pirmin’s cuffs. When the hammering died off, Pirmin said, “I recall now, you said you were from Altdorf.”
Heller nodded. “Wish I could say I was glad to see you here Pirmin.”
Pirmin held out his manacled wrists. “So unfetter these and we will both feel much better.”
One of the men-at-arms stepped in and backhanded Pirmin across the face. “Enough talk, outlaw.” The blow dislodged a tooth loosened during his capture and opened up a cut on one of his gums. Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth and then slowed to a standstill, like a hillside stream in the dead of winter.
The man who hit him wore a patch over one eye and he was bigger than any man in the room save Pirmin. His eye took on a mad glow when he saw Pirmin bleed and spit out his tooth. He laughed and Pirmin, smelling decaying meat on his breath, turned his head away.
He saw Mathias still standing against the far wall, shivering; his thin arms wrapped around himself and his eyes wide in fear.
“Hey, Mathias. Did you just run over here and slap me?”
The boy almost grinned, but the soldier’s face twisted and the glow in his one good eye turned to fire. He punched Pirmin in his wounded shoulder. Lightning coursed through Pirmin’s blood, sending a shockwave of pain throughout his entire body, and he doubled over, grimacing.
“That better big man? That feel like a boy’s fist to you?” The soldier grabbed the mallet from the soldier putting on the shackles and raised it over Pirmin’s uninjured shoulder. “Maybe we should even out the pain a bit so you can stand upright.”
“Put that down or the Duke will hear how you crippled his prisoner,” Heller said.
He strode between the men-at-arms and snatched the mallet from the one-eyed soldier, though he needed to raise himself on his toes to do so. The soldier glared down at Heller, but the threat seemed to register with him, and after a series of chest-heaving breaths he calmed himself. Turning back to Pirmin he grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him upright. He leaned in close.
“Hear that, big man? The Duke wants to see you.” He pushed Pirmin towards the door, but with his ankles hobbled by the short length of chain between them, Pirmin stumbled and fell. He reached out with his hands to break his fall, but his shoulder caused him to scream out in pain. His arms folded and he collapsed onto the flagstone floor amidst a pile of filthy straw.
He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, pretending he had a strap of leather between them. He would not give these bastards the satisfaction of hearing him scream again.
The pain lasted an eternity. When it finally subsided, he did not have the strength to get to his knees, so he remained with his cheek pressed against the damp floor and breathed through his mouth to minimize the stench of human waste.
“Come on Pirmin. Let us get you up,” Heller said softly. He placed his hands on Pirmin’s uninjured arm and tried to lift him. “You,” he said, nodding at one of the men-at-arms. “Give me a hand here. The Duke awaits.”
It took three of them to finally get Pirmin to his feet. The one-eyed soldier put a rope around Mathias’s neck and they marched the two prisoners out of the dark cell.
They went down a long corridor lit by flickering torches in metal sconces on the wall. Cells branched off on every side and faces peered out between iron slats. A few voices called out, but most knew better, and remained silent.
“Where are you taking us, Heller?”
“To the Duke. That’s all I know.”
Pirmin worked his tongue over his split lip and around the inside of his mouth. He looked at the shadows of men moving in the crowded cells.
“More men in here than a slave galley. What are you doing here, Heller?”
“They have all been sentenced to labor on the fo
rtress. Work day is over and they are back for the night now.”
“No, I mean you. Why are you here?”
Heller shrugged, and kept his eyes fixed straight ahead down the long corridor. “I follow my lord’s orders. Is that not what we all should do?”
The hallway ended in a high wooden door, reinforced with strips of iron riveted in place. Heller fumbled with a ring full of long iron keys and unlocked it. The door swung inward on protesting hinges and light spilled into the corridor. The air pouring out of the room was thick and damp, and as Pirmin felt the moist heat on his face, a shiver ran through him.
The men-at-arms herded Pirmin and the young boy through the doorway. Torches lined the walls and a single cell occupied the center of the large room. A table with leather restraints took up one corner, a weapons rack filled with flails, hammers, and pointed poles of differing lengths took up another. But what held Pirmin’s attention, as he shambled into the room, was a large iron cauldron suspended above the ground on four sturdy iron legs. Flames from a healthy fire licked at the undersides of the metal pot. Steam rose above the cauldron and obscured the faces of four men standing on the other side.
Mathias looked at Pirmin, his face registering alarm. Pirmin did his best to calm the boy with a nonchalant nod, but he wondered what comfort he could really offer with his bloodied teeth and stringy hair. And added to that, was the fact that Pirmin was probably more terrified than Mathias, for he had a much better idea of what was to come.
The soldier leading the boy jerked on his rope and led them around the simmering cauldron to the four men. One was a cleric, who clutched a bible to his chest and chanted a constant stream of Latin. Pirmin tried to block him out.
Another man who could have been the priest’s brother, stood at a podium with quill in hand. A thick leather-bound book lay open before him. The third man wore the black robe of a judge, and standing beside him, with his hands behind his back, was Duke Leopold. He ignored the boy but watched Pirmin closely with the inquisitive eyes of a hawk. The prisoners were forced to their knees in front of the Duke.
