The Castle of Kings

  In surprise, Bernwart Gessler opened the bag, which contained golden coins in some foreign currency, so many that it had to be worth more than Gessler had made all last year. His heart was in his throat, but he kept his composure.

  “And what is this wish?” he asked in as neutral a tone as possible, while the little bag disappeared into a drawer in his desk.

  The stranger told him.

  Bernwart Gessler listened with close attention. The request was rather strange, like the man himself. For such a large sum, he could have commanded Gessler to poison the millstream or have all the houses in Annweiler painted blue. Gessler thought for a moment before finally, and hesitantly, he answered.

  “Yes, in a case like that the church registers would indeed help you. But, sad to say, they were all destroyed in a fire three years ago. What a pity . . .” He paused, and he smiled when he saw the other man frown. “But as this matter is obviously very important, I might know someone who can help you further. There could be papers, or at least something similar. Although I can’t promise anything.”

  “And who would that someone be?” asked the stranger.

  Gessler told him.

  With a supple movement, the man rose and sketched a bow. Only now did Gessler notice the curved sword hanging from the man’s waist. Its sheath, hand guard, and hilt were scratched, with deep notches in them, and rusty red patches disfigured the otherwise excellent workmanship. The saber looked as if it had seen a great deal of use.

  “It has been a pleasure to do business with you,” said the stranger. He spoke fluently, if with an accent that Gessler had never heard before. “If your suggestion leads to the desired result, I will be back. If not . . .” He paused for a moment. “Well, I will be back anyway. I am sure I need not emphasize the importance of keeping this conversation of ours confidential. A word to anyone else, and . . .” He let his unfinished sentence die away.

  “Are you by any chance threatening me?” the mayor replied coldly.

  “Think of the other bag. It could soon be yours.”

  The stranger turned away, without a word of farewell, and disappeared through the open doorway. For a while Gessler could hear his boots going down the steps, and then there was silence. Shivering, the mayor drew his warm woolen coat around his shoulders. It was as if a cold wind had blown through the study.

  Bernwart Gessler opened the drawer, and weighed the heavy bag of coins in his hand again.

  Oddly enough, it gave him no real pleasure.

  In the dungeon of Trifels Castle, Mathis had made five more marks on the stone wall since his mother’s visit. Every day he expected the castellan to hand him over to the mayor of Annweiler, or his mother to bring him news of his sick father’s death.

  The endless hours passed monotonously, interrupted only when Ulrich Reichhart or one of the other guards brought him something to eat. Then the trapdoor would open, and light would fall on Mathis’s pale face. Now and then Ulrich said a cheering word, otherwise Mathis was alone with his thoughts.

  To occupy his mind, he had begun recalling the forbidden writings that Shepherd Jockel had once given him to read. When he closed his eyes, he could see the letters clearly before his mind’s eye, and so in his thoughts he reread the peasants’ demands, repeating in a whisper the lines telling the tale of a better world—a world without princes, counts, and clerics. But another image kept coming in front of those lines, distracting his attention.

  The face of Agnes.

  For perhaps the thirtieth time that day he took out the piece of parchment on which Agnes had painted herself and him in the forest. By now it was stained, torn, and the bright colors were fading, but Mathis still thought he caught a faint perfume that reminded him of Agnes. She had not been near him for days. At first he had told himself that was for the best, but then he felt how much he missed her. Why did she have to be the daughter of that damn pig-headed castellan?

  Mathis was on the point of crumpling up the picture in anger, but then he thought better of it, folded the parchment carefully, and put it under his doublet. He rose and began pacing from wall to wall of the dungeon. Fifteen feet one way, fifteen feet back, fifteen feet one way . . .

  Several mice kept him company on his short walk. Mathis had fed them a few crumbs of bread, and in time they had become used to him. Now they would run up and down in front of his feet, squeaking, hoping for food. Mathis was particularly fond of one of them, a little larger and bolder than the others. It had a few black and white spots on its gray coat. As a joke, Mathis had called it Jockel, and he sometimes threw it a particularly large crumb. Jockel had just scurried over the laced leather shoe on Mathis’s right foot, disappearing into a corner of the dungeon where there was a heap of dirty straw. Mathis knelt down and made a few enticing sounds, but the mouse did not come out.

  “Come on, Jockel, where are you? Out you come, stupid.”

  Mathis cautiously approached the heap of straw and swept it aside with his foot.

  “Got you!”

  But Jockel wasn’t there.

  How was that possible? He hadn’t trodden the mouse underfoot, had he? Baffled, Mathis leaned down, and that was when he saw the hole in the corner, just where the stone blocks of the wall met the floor. Curious, he put his finger into it . . . and froze.

  The block was not very thick, and there was obviously a hollow space beyond it. Paying close attention, Mathis knocked at the area around the hole through which the mouse had slipped. Sure enough, the stone block, which came up to around his waist, was thinner than the others in the walls. He had not found that place before because of the straw and other debris in front of it.

  Mathis frowned thoughtfully. What did it mean? He knew that when an enemy stormed a castle, the keep was often the last refuge. The walls there were usually many feet thick, and the entrance to the keep could be reached only by a ladder. But sometimes there were secret passages offering a way of escape. Where the keep of Trifels Castle had once been, there was now the dungeon, the cellar storerooms, and up above those the kitchen and the living quarters. But if the castle was really as old as Agnes always said, it was perfectly possible that there could still be hidden passages.

  Passages leading to the outside world.

  His heart beat frantically. He looked up the shaft in which the dungeon stood and tried to get his bearings. The block was on the side of his cell facing the castle courtyard. From there it would be only about twenty yards to the other side of the western wall of the castle. Could he really have found a way of escape?

  He examined the block more closely. It was solid rock, and apart from the tiny hole in the corner it was just the same as the other massive stones beside it. There were remnants of gray mortar where their edges met. Mathis scratched it, but it was hard as rock too. A tiny, now almost illegible inscription was engraved in one corner.

  ALBERTUS FACIEBAT LEONES EXPULSOS ESSE . . .

  Mathis frowned. He had consulted some books in Latin in the library of Trifels Castle, and translated the passages that mattered to him, but he did not know much Latin vocabulary. Had a prisoner left his mark here in the past? But never mind what the inscription meant, time was short. He had to find out what was behind the block.

  Mathis looked around, desperate to find something that would serve as a tool to scrape away the mortar. Finally he picked up a flat pebble and began working away at the edges of the stone block. It took him some time, but after an hour or more he had removed enough mortar to reveal a crack no wider than a finger. Experimentally, Mathis pushed the block, but nothing happened. He threw his full weight against it, cursing, but it was set in place as firmly as a tree trunk.

  After working at it for several more minutes, Mathis had to accept that the block really was set in the ground. He had no idea how deep down it went, and he would have to dig to find out. But what with? He had no knife or spoon. And even if he did, how long would it take him to break the block out of position? Weeks? Months? By that time Philipp von Erfenstein
would have handed him over to the mayor of Annweiler or thought of some other fate for him.

  Bitterly disappointed, Mathis sat hunched in a corner and buried his dirty face in his hands. His original delight turned to despair. He wouldn’t last much longer down here. He had to get out before the darkness, the cramped space, and his isolation drove him crazy. He couldn’t wait another month, not even another week. Every single day here was too much.

  Once again he tapped the stone block. It seemed to him much thicker and set more firmly in place than before. An insuperable obstacle weighing a ton. How was such a hunk of stone ever to be moved out of position? Unless . . .

  Mathis suddenly stopped short in the middle of his train of thought. A slight smile spread over his face. Why, of course there was a way to do it. It was unusual and risky, in fact almost deranged. And it would mean burning all his bridges behind him. But wasn’t that what he wanted to do anyway?

  Once again Mathis began pacing up and down, but this time driven not by despair. Instead, he was thinking hard.

  A plan was forming in his mind.

  Walking fast, Agnes climbed the steep path from the valley up to the Trifels. She had been down in Annweiler and had bought a little fresh salt for Hedwig and a small bale of fabric for herself, though not of the best quality. She had been meaning to make Father Tristan a new habit. His old one was so threadbare that he must be cold in it. He would never have thought of a new garment himself. Over the last few days, Agnes had not had much time to think of Mathis. Since she had gone to Hahnenbach with Father Tristan, the old monk had been to visit the sick near the castle four more times. Each time Agnes had gone with him, giving him what help she could. She had splinted the broken arm of an old man who had fallen at work in the fields; she had spooned blueberry juice, as a cure for diarrhea, into a hollow-cheeked girl suffering from hunger and a fever; she had boiled up honey and sage to help with a dry cough. And she had watched Father Tristan administer extreme unction to a wrinkled old woman. Later, Agnes discovered that the woman had been just forty years old and was the mother of eight children. She had been suckling the youngest at her breast only a few days before she died. In the last three days, Agnes had learned more than in the previous three years.

  Above all, she had seen the suffering of the peasants. They lived on rotting turnips and hard bread made from acorn flour and beechnuts. They worked from sunrise to sunset to cultivate their poor fields and meager kitchen gardens. They bent their backs to dig, while their babies rocked in the wind, hanging wrapped in cloth from trees at the sides of the field, crying their lungs out with hunger.

  This life had nothing in common with the stories and pictures that Agnes knew from the castle library. She felt like she had spent all her time until now in a small room full of books, and someone had suddenly opened the window to let real life in.

  And real life stank. It was wretched, ugly, and its injustice cried out to heaven. Agnes often wondered how God could allow such things.

  Breathing heavily from the steep climb, she looked up after a while and saw Margarethe coming from the opposite direction. The maid walked with a spring in her step, her hair was prettily combed, and she had a glittering ornament around her neck. As she came closer, it proved to be made of cheap polished copper with a few glass stones in it. All the same, Margarethe wore it as if she were a great lady. When they were level with each other, the maid bobbed a curtsy, but Agnes saw that the meeting made her feel uncomfortable.

  “All in your Sunday best?” asked Agnes with a smile. “You don’t look like you’re on your way down to wash clothes in the river.”

  “I’ve done all my work, my lady,” replied Margarethe uncertainly. “I’ve been on my feet since sunrise, helping Hedwig in the kitchen. Now she’s said I can have the rest of the day off until evening. Unless my lady needs me . . .” She paused, and looked pleadingly at Agnes. But Agnes only waved the idea away.

  “You’ve earned a little free time.” Agnes’s eyes twinkled as she spoke to her lady’s maid. “That is, if you’ll tell me who gave you that pretty necklace.”

  “Oh, that.” Margarethe pretended that she had only just noticed it. “It comes from Annweiler.” She put her hand to it, and a smile played around her roughened lips. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? A merchant’s journeyman from Speyer gave it to me. He comes to these parts quite often and I think he likes me.”

  “I expect he’s in Annweiler again today?” suggested Agnes.

  Margarethe nodded, and Agnes felt a small pang. If her lady’s maid had really found a prosperous suitor, she was to be congratulated. All the same, she felt something like jealousy. No doubt Margarethe would marry the man she wanted eventually, but what about Agnes herself? By now she could only hope that the next bridegroom her father presented to her would at least be better than Heidelsheim. She supposed that Mathis would never be more than the man of her dreams.

  And after a while, dreams fade away, she thought sadly.

  “I wish you well, Margarethe,” Agnes said. She pulled herself together. “Now, off you go before your friend from Speyer gives up and goes away.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Relieved, Margarethe curtsyed again and hurried downhill. Soon she had disappeared around the next bend in the path.

  Agnes turned and walked slowly on, passing the high wall of the castle and the well tower. She couldn’t keep her thoughts from dwelling on Mathis, and she felt another pang. Taking Father Tristan’s advice, she had not tried to visit him again. Unfortunately, however, the monk had not yet been able to soften her father’s heart. Since his first visit to the ducal steward in Neukastell, Philipp von Erfenstein had been there again twice, and each time had come home even more withdrawn and morose than usual. What could have happened? She often saw her father brooding as he paced up and down the Knights’ House, and several times he had asked Ulrich Reichhart to go to the armory with him. After that he had looked even gloomier.

  What also weighed on Agnes’s mind was her latest dream of Trifels. It took clearer shape in her mind with every passing day. By now she could see every single scene vividly before her: the young man in his hauberk on the battlements, his soundless words, the ring on her finger. She had read the plea from his lips.

  Take the ring off! Take the ring off!

  Agnes took out the strange signet ring that was still hanging around her neck on its chain. Was it really a danger to her? Were those dreams warnings from the past? Shaking her head, she put the ring back under her bodice. Maybe they were simply the result of the strange few weeks that had just passed. For some reason, Father Tristan had warned her against the ring, and now his warnings tormented her like nightmares.

  At the gateway, Agnes nodded to the man-at-arms on guard, Gunther. He muttered something incomprehensible into his beard, but she did not stop. Instead, she hurried up the ramp to the lower bailey, where the aviary, which was as tall as a man, stood in a corner. Parcival beat his wings happily at the sight of her. He was better now, and Agnes had been out into the woods with him again. He was molting too much to go hunting, but since that encounter with Hans von Wertingen and his companions, Agnes had felt less like hunting in any case. She kept thinking a figure might leap out from behind the nearest tree.

  “I haven’t taken you out much recently, have I, little one?” she said consolingly to Parcival. “I promise we’ll soon go for a good long expedition together.”

  Only now did she notice a strange horse standing at the back of the courtyard by the stables. He was a fiery mount with a freshly combed mane and a well-brushed coat, and at present he had his head in a bucket of oats. The other two men-at-arms, Eberhart and Sebastian, sat on the steps leading to the upper bailey, playing dice. They had an almost empty jug of wine in front of them. When they caught sight of Agnes, they rose to their feet, swaying slightly.

  “God be with you, mistress,” Sebastian said, slurring his words. “I hope you had a pleasant day.”

  “Not as pleas
ant as yours, I suspect.” Agnes pointed to the strange horse. “I see we have a visitor.”

  “Very dis . . . distinguished visitor,” Eberhart babbled. “Brought a cask of French wine as a present to the castellan. Three cheers for the count!”

  “The count?” Surprised, Agnes looked at the two guards. But as they said no more, she went on to the upper bailey. She quickly looked in at the kitchen with her bag of salt, and put the bale of cloth away before climbing the stairs to the Knights’ House, curious to meet the visitor.

  When Agnes entered the great hall, she saw her father sitting on a stool in front of the cold hearth. Beside him sat a pale young man dressed in fine fabric. He wore a black cap, a black doublet, and close-fitting silken hose, with a gold chain hung around his neck. In the dim light of the hall, he looked like a messenger from another, richer world. The two men were obviously deep in serious conversation. Two chipped glass goblets, filled with wine, stood on a small table. Agnes knew that her father brought out his precious glasses only when an important guest visited. When Philipp von Erfenstein saw his daughter, he interrupted the conversation.

  “I thought you were still down in Annweiler?” he muttered, perhaps displeased, and then pointed to the stranger. “Well, be that as it may, we have a guest. This is young Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck. I’ve told you about his family. Show the count the honor he deserves, please.”

  Agnes bent her knee. Her father had in fact mentioned the Löwenstein-Scharfenecks now and then—or rather, he had abused them roundly. To the castellan of Trifels Castle, the Scharfenecks were one of those noble families who were more notable for their descent than their deeds. Their castle was only a few miles from Annweiler, and not far from the stronghold of the robber knight Hans von Wertingen. The links between the Scharfenecks and Frederick, the former elector of the Palatinate, had made the family rich and powerful. Their estate was the finest in all the countryside.