The smoke, thought Mathis. And I thought it was hay burning. This is the largest camp I ever set eyes on.
Almost all the men sitting beside the many fires in the twilight wore the simple, gray-brown clothing of serfs. Banners waved in the wind, most of them with the image of the tied shoe typically worn by peasants that had long ago become a symbol of the wars of liberation. Here and there, someone was playing a fiddle or performing a melancholy tune on a willow whistle, but many of the men had a weary, grim look, and a good number wore bandages stiff with dirt. As Mathis and Melchior were led through the camp, they both drew hostile glances.
“Hang ’em from the nearest tree,” someone called after them. “They’re gentry, anyone can see that.”
“Hold your tongue, you drunken sot, the knight will decide what to do with them,” the tall leader retorted. “You know he wants all prisoners brought to him.”
While Mathis was still trying to work out who this strange knight might be, they approached a plain black tent in the middle of the camp. Two elderly peasants with stooped shoulders stood on guard outside it, holding boar spears.
The giant cleared his throat and stepped nervously from foot to foot. “Here’s two prisoners that might earn us a ransom,” he said humbly, bowing his head. “Could be the commander ought to see them.”
“We’ll take them to him. You wait outside.”
The guards pushed the two captives into the tent, which was illuminated by a large fire in a brazier. Beyond it, in the dimmer light, was a large table with many maps lying on it. A figure bent over them. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, the man rolled up one of the sheets of parchment again and turned to Mathis and the minstrel. Only now could they see him properly. Mathis noticed that Melchior von Tanningen gave a brief start, as if he recognized him.
The man whom the peasants called “the knight” was broadly built, and at first sight looked fat, but his sturdy arms and bull-like neck suggested that most of his bulk consisted of muscle. A scratched breastplate glinted in the firelight.
“Well, well, two prisoners,” he growled. “So what were you doing so close to my camp? Spying? Come on, we’ll find out anyway. Or do you want me to hit you with this, eh?”
The knight menacingly raised his hand, and Mathis instinctively flinched back. The man’s entire right forearm was made of iron. The stiff fingers gleaming in the firelight were curled into a fist, with which he now struck the table so forcefully that some of the parchment scrolls fell to the ground.
“Speak up, or I’ll have your tongues cut out.”
“We are simple pilgrims on our way to Rome.” Melchior began, but the knight swept a pitcher of wine off the table with his iron hand, silencing the minstrel.
“That story may satisfy my credulous peasants, but it’s not good enough for me. You’re clearly going in the wrong direction for Rome.”
“We lost our way,” Melchior replied.
The knight was about to make some reply, but then he suddenly narrowed his eyes and looked closely at the minstrel. “Wait a moment, I know you from somewhere,” he murmured. “You’re from Franconia, like me, right? I’ve seen you before.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else. I’m just an ordinary minstrel in the service of a count in the Palatinate.”
The knight came over to them with a threatening look. “Oh yes, just an ordinary minstrel, are you?” he boomed. “And I suppose the fellow with you is his lordship the count in person?”
“I’m a common craftsman,” Mathis said. “We met on our pilgrimage only a few weeks ago.”
“Ho, and what sort of craft is yours, then?”
“I’m a master gunner.”
Mathis had spoken without much thought. Now that a sudden silence descended in the tent, and he saw the two guards as well as the knight scrutinizing him curiously, he realized that he might have made a mistake.
“A master gunner?” the knight finally inquired in a quiet voice. “Really? Then you’re certainly serving in some army or other in times like these. Who knows, you may even be with the Swabian League?”
Mathis earnestly shook his head. “No, no. I learned my father’s trade at the count’s castle. I’ve never been beyond the Wasgau in my life. I would never—”
The knight’s iron hand shot out and seized Mathis by the throat so firmly that he retched. Colored circles appeared before his eyes, while he struggled like a fish on the hook.
“You lie the moment you open your mouth,” the commander snapped. “But you’re in luck. As chance would have it, we need a trained gunner above all, now that we’re facing Würzburg. I couldn’t care less what you did before, so long as you fight on our side now.” He let go of Mathis, who sank to the floor, gasping.
“The peasants are brave, but they don’t understand either tactics or firearms,” the knight went on more calmly. “I’ll forget all your barefaced lies if you’re telling the truth in this one point, and you really are a master gunner. If not, I’ll have the pair of you shot from here to Würzburg by our falconet. Guards!”
He turned to the two grinning guards and gave them a signal. “Take these two over to our arsenal. There’s an old cannon there that can’t be charged properly. Let this lad show us what he can do. And if he fails, you know what you have to do.”
As the two captives were taken away through the dark camp by a detachment of peasants, Melchior von Tanningen turned to Mathis at a moment when they were unobserved.
“Why the devil did you have to say you were a master gunner?” he whispered. “Now we’ll either fly sky-high with their old cannon, or we’ll be cannon fodder ourselves. We’d nearly caught up with the landsknecht army, and now our young lady is right out of our reach again.”
“Oh, and why did you have to say we were pilgrims on the way to Rome?” retorted Mathis. “This is a peasant army. The pope is the antichrist to these people.”
“The peasants are still devout believers. And I wasn’t to know that they’d chosen one-armed Götz as their leader.”
Mathis looked at him, taken aback. “You know the man?”
“Götz von Berlichingen is a Franconian robber knight with a thirst for blood. He’s of good family and was brought up at the court of Ansbach, but at some point his true character emerged. He’s been involved in over a dozen feuds in Franconia, some against members of my own family.” Melchior von Tanningen nodded grimly. “It’s just like him to join the peasants. Whenever there’s robbery, loot, or plunder in the offing, Götz will be there.”
“And that . . . iron hand?” Mathis asked hesitantly. “I never saw anything like it before.”
“A stray bullet shattered his right hand at the siege of Landshut. Our bad luck that he didn’t die of gangrene. Anyway, he had two artificial hands made. One for ceremonial occasions, one for fighting—that’s the one you just met. They say that Götz can even wield a sword with it, and not badly either.”
By now they had reached a part of the camp that was particularly heavily guarded. Tents and campfires stood in a circle around a dozen or so dirty artillery pieces, some of them bent out of shape, standing on gun carriages or horse-drawn carts. Casks that Mathis assumed held gunpowder stood on other carts.
“It’s the cannon back there,” said one of the peasants, pointing to a bronze artillery piece encrusted with dirt, and with a green tinge to it. “We took it at Weinsberg. Our smith, Michel Roider, says it’s too dangerous to fire the thing.” He grinned. “But you and your fine friend are welcome to try.”
Mathis went over to the old gun and gave it a cursory inspection. It was of the kind known as a culverin, strapped to a gun carriage, and would fire cannonballs weighing some ten pounds. The muzzle and touchhole were badly encrusted, and the rotting wheels of the gun carriage would have to be replaced, but all the same Mathis could see no obvious cracks in the bronze of the barrel.
“I need spatulas and scrapers,” he said, turning to the guards, who were gawping at him. “And a small barrel of coars
e-grained powder to charge it, a dry fuse, and a ten-pound . . .” He hesitated. “No, an eight-pound cannonball. Can you get me those?”
The guard nodded, and went off to the carts of gunpowder with a couple of his comrades.
“Well?” Melchior whispered. “Will you be able to repair this gun?”
Mathis sighed. “With God’s help, and yours, maybe. It’s at least fifty years old. We’ll have to clean it very thoroughly.”
Having brought Mathis what he asked for, the guards retreated to a prudent distance and watched him and Melchior as they began freeing the culverin of verdigris and the remains of old powder. As they worked, Mathis kept checking all parts of the barrel for any cracks, cleaned the touchhole, and filed the muzzle like a man possessed. It took them until the early hours of the morning, but at last Melchior von Tanningen began charging the barrel with gunpowder.
One of the guards rose wearily from his station, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t you dare fire it into our ranks,” he threatened. “Or I promise you a slow death.”
Mathis shook his head in silence, while the red glow of morning began to dawn. He was tense and excited. As usual, work on the cannon had put him into a kind of trance that was now slowly wearing off. Beside him, Melchior von Tanningen could hardly stay on his feet. His expensive garments were black with soot and gunpowder, his face pale and tired.
“It’s going to be a fine day,” said the minstrel, smiling wearily. “Time for a demonstration of your arts. My life is entirely in your hands. Who’d have thought it a few months ago?”
“And my life is also in your hands,” replied Mathis quietly. “If you haven’t cleaned the barrel properly, a bright flash of fire is the last thing either of us will see on this Earth.”
He looked around and then pointed to a shed standing to one side in the middle of the trampled field. The derelict hut was about three hundred yards away from them.
“Is there anyone in there?” Mathis asked the peasants who were hurrying up from all directions. The sun was now above the horizon, and word had gone around that an alleged master gunner was about to put his skill to the test.
“The shed’s empty,” replied one of the guards, from where he had taken cover behind a large cart. “We searched it yesterday evening. Nothing but rats and mice.”
“Then let’s give those vermin a rousing morning greeting.”
Mathis released a lever on the gun carriage and tilted the barrel until it was slanting up toward the sky. When he was satisfied with the angle of inclination, he pushed the cannonball into the muzzle, tamping it well down. Then he picked up the burning fuse and, with a shaking hand, held it to the touchhole.
“Holy St. Hubert, patron saint of metalworkers,” he murmured, “carry this ball to its mark. Not for me but for Agnes, who may still need our help.”
With his hands covering his ears, Mathis waited. For what felt like an eternity, the only sound was the hissing of the powder in the touchhole. Just as he was thinking that the powder must be damp, there was a sudden sound like thunder. The shock wave sent him falling backward on the soft ground. Mud spurted up into his eyes, and he could see nothing for a while.
Am I dead? Did the barrel explode?
When he sat up again, and looked at the place where the shed had been, he saw only a smoking ruin. Splinters of wood were scattered far and wide over the field.
There was an almost eerie silence in the peasants’ camp, but then cries of jubilation were heard, first only sporadically, then more of them, in louder voices. Several of the peasants threw their hats into the air. They did not know what the shot meant, but it seemed to them a suitable demonstration of their own power. Very few of them had any idea how firearms worked, so their enthusiasm for a thunderous crash and a flash like lightning was all the greater. The guards cautiously approached, none of them threatening Mathis with their weapons. On the contrary, some nodded at him encouragingly.
“Hey, the knight will be glad we have such a damn good gunner in our own ranks,” said one of the older peasants, laughing as he turned to his comrades. “You wait and see, next time this fellow will be shooting the mitre off the bishop of Würzburg’s head.”
Melchior von Tanningen took off his sooty hat and bowed low to Mathis. “My respects, Master Wielenbach. It looks to me that this band has found a new gunner, along with his humble assistant.” He sighed. “I fear my ballad is going to be considerably longer than I first thought.”
The Annweiler tanner Nepomuk Kistler raised the heavy wooden slab from the lye pit, trying not to breathe too deeply. The first moments when the accumulated vapors of the last few months spread through his workshop were always the worst. The corrosive smell of the lye made from oak bark and the stink of rotting flesh made tanning one of the least sought-after trades. The skins lying in the pit in front of Kistler had been washed and scraped, but tiny scraps of flesh still clung to them, and stank to high heaven.
Nepomuk Kistler ran his fingers, roughened from the chalk he used, experimentally over the cowhide. It was of good quality and would make a sturdy saddle. Much more valuable, however, was the calfskin on the shelves at the back, from which he would make parchment in the winter months. The white-haired old tanner smiled to think that the sublime knowledge of mankind was written down, for the most part, on the backs of thick-witted cattle.
Including that precious deed, he thought.
Kistler’s expression immediately darkened. He hadn’t thought of it for a long time. Too many things had happened. Annweiler had been in turmoil for weeks. After the peasants of Landau had risen up to attack the Palatinate, and were even now besieging Speyer, the citizens of Annweiler had decided to open their gates to the insurgents. There had been sheer chaos in the town ever since. Johannes Lebner the priest had fled, and so had several prosperous members of the town council, fearing for their money. And since the terrible murder of Bernwart Gessler, no new mayor had been appointed.
The older citizens in particular stayed in their houses, while outdoors the peasants and the younger people of Annweiler, who had joined the revolt, patrolled the streets. Meanwhile the wildest of stories were told in the taverns—tales of slaughter, of abbots crucified alive, of knights and their ladies hanged from the battlements of their castles like game animals caught in the hunt. The peasants had taken Trifels, and neighboring Scharfenberg Castle, too. There was no trace of Count Scharfeneck or of his young wife.
Nepomuk Kistler thought of what the midwife had said at their last meeting in the forest: Maybe this is the time of which our founding fathers spoke. The end of the world as we know it. Perhaps it is time for the secret to be made known at last . . .
Was the end of the world really coming? Many prophets had foretold that the present epoch would be a turning point. At least Kistler had done well to get the deed away last year.
Breathing heavily, Kistler took the stinking skins out of the lye pit and plunged them into a tub of fresh water as he pursued his own thoughts. His heart was troubling him more and more now that he was nearly seventy. He had not stood for election to the leadership of the Brotherhood but had inherited it many years ago from his father, who in his own turn had inherited it from his father before him. Ever since the days of Emperor Frederick II, Barbarossa’s grandson who had granted the town of Annweiler its charter, the Brotherhood had held masses for the souls of the Staufers. But their true task was a different one, and as leaders of the Brotherhood the Kistlers had kept that immensely important document, the deed, safe over all those years. The ring had come into the order’s possession only a few years ago.
They had been waiting ever since for the evil to return.
Last summer, when Nepomuk Kistler had discovered the mayor’s dead body in the lye tub, he had been the only one who did not believe that Mathis was guilty of the murder. Secretly, he had believed that someone else was striking terror into the town of Annweiler. A monster sent by dark powers to do a deed that had been planned hundreds of years ago.
Maybe it was the sound of the dragging footsteps, or simply the strange, unusual smell that hung in the air of the room—something had attracted Kistler’s attention all of a sudden. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He slowly turned, and in the dim light saw a man in a plain but well-made black coat. Only his teeth gleamed white in his dark face.
“God be with you, Master Kistler,” said the stranger. “It has taken me a long time to find you at last.”
Trying not to tremble, the old tanner slowly retreated until he stood on the edge of the lye pit. In the taverns of Annweiler, they had been saying for some time that there was a black devil at large in the area. Now the devil seemed to be here. Nepomuk Kistler hastily made the sign of the cross. The old midwife had been right: this really was the end of the world, and their enemies were more terrible and powerful than he had ever guessed.
“Vade . . . Satanas!” he managed to say, with difficulty.
The black man sighed, sounding bored. “Let us not go through this pathetic routine. The midwife tried that, and I did not dissolve into smoke, leaving a smell of sulfur behind.” He slowly came toward Kistler. “Just give me what I want before I really do turn into a devil. Imediatamente, miúdo!”
The strange sounds transfixed Nepomuk Kistler with shock. He had always been a deeply superstitious man. Now fear for his life, and the man’s uncanny outer appearance, turned his presentiment to certainty. This really was the devil himself, and he was speaking the language of hell.
“Your pitiful Brotherhood is mentioned in the old charter of Annweiler,” the devil hissed. “So do not play the ignorant fool. Unfortunately most of the documents have been destroyed or are up at Trifels, where the peasants are in charge now, and I have no access to them. It has taken me a whole week to find what I wanted in the ducal archives at Zweibrücken. A week to find out that the Kistlers have always been at the head of a mysterious order. This is enough. Tell me the name I want, or you shall suffer the same fate as your obstinate mayor.”