Father Domenicus made his slow way to a shelf at the back of the room where a single scroll of parchment lay, tied with a leather thong. It bore a seal showing the head of a bearded man. The dean unrolled the parchment, carefully spreading it out on the table. It was written in Latin, the words slightly blurred but still legible, and standing out red as blood from the thin vellum of their background.
Nos Fridericus Dei gratia Sacri Romani Imperii possessorem huiusce diplomatis heredem singularem ducatus Sueviae declaramus . . .
When Agnes had deciphered the first line, she felt faint, and briefly all went black before her eyes.
We, Frederick, by the grace of God ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, hereby declare the possessor of this deed the sole heir of the Staufers. His sign will be the ring of this family, which he will always bear with him as the insignia of power . . .
“The messenger from Annweiler brought us the deed,” Agnes heard the father go on, feeling like she were listening to him through a thick tapestry hanging on the wall. “Enzio himself had given it to little Constanza in the past, together with the ring, so that she could prove her birth. Later, the Brotherhood kept the document for whoever was then the bearer of the ring, to keep him or her from unnecessary danger. Ever since, the name of the next firstborn child has been added to the family tree. That identifies the mysterious descendant whom the Habsburgs are now, for the second time, trying to kill. The messenger told us the name, and said that we were to tell the whole secret if that person, or indeed one of that person’s heirs, ever came to St. Goar bearing the sign of recognition, an object that, like the document, was handed down over the generations.” Father Domenicus smiled, and at last gave the ring back to Agnes, who was sitting hunched on her stool, rigid and motionless. Then he knelt to her and bowed his head. Only now did Agnes see, as if through a veil, that other monks had come through the door, and they too went on their knees to her.
“Hail, Agnes von Erfenstein, baroness of the Staufer dynasty, last legitimate descendant of Barbarossa,” said the dean in his hoarse voice. “I almost failed to recognize you in man’s clothing, with your hair cut short. Now is the time when the German Empire needs your help.”
Agnes sat on her stool, like she’d been turned to stone, while the dean’s words echoed through her mind.
Hail, Agnes von Erfenstein . . . last legitimate descendant of Barbarossa . . .
About half a dozen monks knelt on the floor around her. Melchior and Mathis gaped at her, while she herself was incapable of any movement.
“But . . . but that can’t be so,” she finally managed to say. She tried to laugh, but it was a forced, difficult sound. “My parents were not from powerful families. My father was an ordinary knight, and he owed his post as castellan of Trifels to Emperor Maximilian, while my mother . . .”
“The mother you speak of was not your own,” Father Domenicus gently interrupted her. “Agnes, it is time for you to know the truth. That messenger from Annweiler, an old tanner by the name of Nepomuk Kistler, told us all about it. Philipp von Erfenstein and his wife, Katharina, had no children of their own. Indeed, they couldn’t have children at all. But one day they found a little girl of about five, weeping, a child with matted blonde hair, outside the gates of Trifels Castle. She had nothing with her but a crumpled piece of paper, saying that she was of high birth, and her real parents were dead. Your foster parents took this as divine providence and brought you up as their own child.”
“My . . . my mother . . .” Agnes began again, with large tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Was not Katharina von Erfenstein, but Friderica of the house of Hohenstaufen. All the firstborn children of the secret line of Staufers after Sigmund were given the names Fridericus or Friderica, referring to their mighty ancestor. That was the decision of the Brotherhood at the time. The order also taught those firstborns the ancient language of minstrels, and their stories and songs from a time long past, so that the knowledge would never be lost.” Father Domenicus smiled. “You are a Friderica yourself, Agnes. You were your mother’s only child.”
“And . . . and my father?” asked Agnes, with difficulty.
“He was a simple tanner of Annweiler, a member of the Brotherhood who knew the secret.” The dean looked kindly at Agnes. “I wonder whether you still have any memories of your real parents? After all, you were already five when you came to the Erfensteins.”
Agnes suddenly thought of the old Occitanian song that her mother always sang to her. She tasted the sweetness of milk with honey in it and smelled the distant perfume of violets . . .
Coindeta sui, si cum n’ai greu cossire, quar pauca son, iuvenete e tosa . . .
Could it be possible that those few memories were not of Katharina von Erfenstein at all, but of a strange woman called Friderica?
A strange woman who was her mother.
The monks were still kneeling before her on the stone floor as though they were waiting for something, for a sign, for an order. But Agnes had no idea what it could be. Mathis and Melchior were also staring at her as if, after the dean had made his declaration, she had become someone entirely different.
“A legitimate descendant of the Staufers and the Guelphs, hidden at Trifels,” sighed Melchior, shaking his head incredulously. “If that’s true, then I am definitely going to win the singers’ contest at the Wartburg.”
“I . . . I dreamed of my mother . . .” Agnes began, as if in a trance. Her fingers caressed the cool gold of the ring. “Only recently. It must have been the smell of freshly tanned leather in Barnabas’s cart that took me back to the past. The leather, and the beechwood smoke . . .”
“Barnabas?” asked Father Domenicus, puzzled.
“My parents were tanners,” Agnes went on as if she hadn’t heard him. Her thoughts were far, far away, in a time many years ago. “We were out in our cart together. We . . . we were taking the tanned skins to market in Speyer as we always did. Father had treated the skins for three years, they were good calfskin, and among them was vellum for the parchment used in the bishop’s archives. With some of the money they earned, they were going to buy me a new doll in Speyer. I’d wanted one so much . . .” Agnes was staring into space, her voice louder now. “But then we were attacked in the forest. I heard galloping horses, and screams, and gasping sounds . . . it was all so fast. Our servant, Hieronymus, he took me away. Oh God, my parents!” She stopped and stared at the dean. “What happened to them?”
Father Domenicus took a deep breath. “I am afraid the assassins of the Habsburgs killed them in the course of that attack. At that time the German king Maximilian, the grandfather of Charles, had already been crowned Holy Roman Emperor, but his throne was not secure. France was not satisfied with playing second fiddle in Europe. Maximilian feared anything that might reinforce the Staufer line. When news came of a hidden descendant in Annweiler, the Habsburgs acted ruthlessly. But you escaped the assassins at the last moment.”
Agnes nodded. “An old woman saved me. She was in my dreams, too. She saw the ring that my mother gave me just before her death.” Absent-mindedly, she took hold of Barbarossa’s signet ring. It now felt as cold as ice around her finger. Suddenly it seemed tight, and much too heavy for her to wear for even one more day.
“You are right. It was probably a midwife of Annweiler who found you in the forest,” the dean quietly replied. “Fortunately she was a member of the Brotherhood. Your meeting must have been God’s own providence. She gave the ring to the order and took you to the gates of Trifels, the one place that she thought safe enough for you.”
“But if the ring was back in the hands of the order,” said Mathis, who, like Melchior von Tanningen, had been listening in astonishment until now, “then how did it return to Agnes?”
Father Domenicus sighed. “The messenger from Annweiler told us that, too. Last year, when the Habsburgs sent out their henchmen again, this midwife clearly felt very anxious. She wanted to be rid of the ring. When Agnes’s falcon appeared at her house
, she felt it was meant by fate—”
“And she fixed the ring to Parcival’s leg,” Mathis finished excitedly. He turned to Agnes, pressing her hand. “Now at least we know why those damned dreams came to you from then on. The ring reminded you of your early childhood. And your mother probably told you the story of Johann and Constanza back then.”
Agnes said nothing. She suddenly remembered Melchior’s ballad, the one he had composed when they set out from Trifels.
She had a ring, from fair Constanza, as I sing. It sent her many a troubled dream . . .
It was like those lines brought long-forgotten rhymes and stories back to her. Once more, her thoughts went back to a distant, misty land . . .
I am lying in my bed, the warm quilt pulled up to my chin, outside the wind is whistling around the houses of Annweiler. Tell me about Constanza, Mother. Tell me how she first saw handsome Johann in the Knights’ House. Tell me about the ring. My mother sighs and casts up her eyes. Always that same, sad story, Agnes. Aren’t you getting tired of it? Come along, I’ll tell you the story of the Red Knight and . . . No! Constanza. I want to hear about Constanza and the ring. Please, please! I fidget and whine until my mother finally gives in . . .
“There must have been people who knew all along that Agnes wasn’t the Erfensteins’ own child,” said Mathis, thinking out loud, bringing Agnes out of her reverie. “The old people at the castle, I suppose. Hedwig the cook, and good old Ulrich Reichhart. He said something suggesting it before his death.”
Agnes still said nothing, caught up in her memories. But after a while she shook herself and glanced at the monks who, with Father Domenicus, were watching her expectantly. They still seemed to be waiting for something.
“Very well. So if all this is as you say,” she said in a failing voice, turning to the dean, “if I really am descended from Barbarossa . . . what is that but a pretty story? Why are you so interested in it?”
The dean laughed quietly. “A pretty story, indeed. Do you know what power stories have, Agnes? Especially in times like these. Why do you think the Habsburgs are trying to find you again? Because people want to believe in stories. The empire burns from end to end. People need myths that will comfort them, they need someone who can stand for all their hopes and longings.” He paused for a moment before he went on, smiling. “You are that someone, Agnes von Erfenstein, descendant of the house of Hohenstaufen. But only if you accept your inheritance. Its symbolic power can hardly be overestimated.”
“What do you mean?” asked Agnes, frowning. “What inheritance?”
“Listen,” replied Father Domenicus. “The story is not over yet. You must—”
At that moment the door opened with a crash. Agnes cried out in terror, seeing the devil himself walk into the underground room.
Immediately after that, all hell broke loose around them.
Mathis, too, swung around on hearing the crash. He was still utterly confused by all the strange news that the dean had told them. His confusion turned to horror when he saw the figure now standing in the room. He was a man with a face as black as night. His dusty coat was also black, but his hose were blood-red. The stranger had kicked the door open, and he held two handguns, both with their triggers cocked.
They’re genuine wheel-lock pistols, thought Mathis. He’s no ordinary robber. Those weapons are worth a fortune.
He stood as though turned to stone with fear and astonishment, staring at the two pistols. He had seen such things only in drawings. Now he was about to find out what they were like in reality.
Out of the corner of his eye, Mathis saw Melchior von Tanningen throw himself in front of Agnes. Then there was a deafening explosion, closely followed by a scream. The dean collapsed, groaning, beside Mathis, with blood spurting from his shoulder. One of the bullets must have hit him.
“The ring,” moaned Father Domenicus, trying to stand up. “Save the ring and the deed. They must not . . . fall . . . into the wrong hands . . .”
The monks, screaming, rushed about like headless chickens, trying to get to safety in dark niches or behind the walls of books, where they flung themselves on the floor. One of them clung to the heavy framework of a shelf, which slowly tilted forward and fell to the floor with a crash. A shower of books, parchment scrolls, and loose pages fell on Mathis and Agnes. In the general chaos, Mathis crawled under the heavy oak table, closely followed by Agnes, who seemed to have recovered from her sudden faintness.
“Careful, the bastard’s going to fire again!”
That was Melchior, suddenly appearing beside them. With a grunt of effort, he braced himself against the mighty table and pushed until it fell on its side and could act as a shield.
Another explosion shook the room. This time the bullet hit the tabletop. It splintered, and Mathis heard a hiss as the bullet emerged only a hand’s breadth away from Melchior. It passed through his lute and stuck in the wall behind him. The minstrel took the instrument off his back and stared in disbelief at its shattered body and torn strings.
“He’ll pay for this,” he said angrily. “This Florentine model cost me two hundred guilders. With my initials on it in ivory.” He gently stroked the neck of the lute one last time, and then threw the lute at the attacker like an ax, but it missed its mark.
Meanwhile, Agnes was crouching on the floor with her hands over her ears. “Who . . . who is that?” was all she could get out, gasping. Mathis could hardly hear her through all the wailing of the monks and the noise of falling bookshelves.
“I guess an assassin sent by the Habsburgs!” he shouted against the racket. “Stay where you are! Melchior and I will—”
He fell silent, as an almost inhuman cry met his ears. Cautiously looking up, he saw one of the canons, his habit blazing, stagger along the rows of bookshelves, screaming. During the fight, one of the chandeliers had evidently fallen to the floor, setting several loose pages alight. The fire had already spread to a pile of books, and red and blue flames licked at them.
Mathis ventured a glance over the tabletop and saw the burning monk move toward the stranger with his arms spread wide. With an incomprehensible curse on his lips, the black-skinned man swerved, and the canon went on into the great hall.
My God, the library, Mathis thought. He’s going to set the whole library on fire.
The stranger had now cast aside his handguns and drawn his sword. Ready to fight, he approached the tabletop, while the other monks ran from the room behind him, screaming. Only Father Domenicus lay where he was on the floor, bleeding, with his eyes half closed.
By now there was so much smoke that Mathis could hardly see. Books and parchment scrolls burned everywhere, and several walls of shelves had fallen over, adding more fuel to the flames. Mathis could hear Melchior coughing beside him. The minstrel drew his sword. A slight smile was playing around his lips.
“I’m afraid I’ll need your help again, Master Wielenbach,” he said, with solemn formality. “That devil is after Agnes. I can deal with him, but you must get the noble lady to safety before this whole place goes up in flames.”
“Never mind all that,” Agnes snapped, rubbing her eyes, which were streaming from the smoke. “I can walk on my own two feet. But I swear to God I won’t go a step from here if we don’t help Father Domenicus too.” She pointed to the dean, who lay behind a bonfire of books and had evidently regained consciousness. He was groaning. “I don’t want him to die just because that lunatic hit an innocent man instead of me,” Agnes went on, shaking with fury.
“Spoken like a true heroine,” sighed Melchior. “Then take him out of here if you like, although I don’t think that—”
At that moment, the stranger leapt over the tabletop and raised his sword to strike a mortal blow. Melchior lunged, thrusting with his own sword, but his adversary had foreseen the move and nimbly swerved. While their duel went on, Mathis and Agnes hurried over to Father Domenicus.
“We must get out of here, Father!” Mathis shouted against the crackling of the fla
mes. “Are you able to walk?”
The dean did not utter a sound. His lips trembled, and a large pool of blood had already formed around him. Finally, Mathis took him under the armpits, and Father Domenicus cried out quietly.
“We must be careful lifting him,” Agnes warned. “Any wrong movement could mean his death!”
“We don’t have time. If we stay here any longer it’ll mean the death of all of us.” Mathis got the dean over his shoulder and staggered toward the door with him. In passing, he saw Melchior von Tanningen and the black-skinned stranger still fighting in front of the tabletop.
Then thick black smoke hid them from view.
With a hoarse cry, the assassin flung himself toward Melchior. The two wheel-lock pistols lay on the ground exactly between them. Reloading them would have cost too much time, and so now he and Melchior had to fight with their swords, putting them on a more even playing field.
For a while the sword fight went this way and that, and only the ringing of the two men’s blades and the crackling of flames was heard. The brittle shelves, dry as dust, burned like tinder around them, their frameworks, breaking apart, crashed to the floor one by one, their contents feeding the flames as the fire grew and grew.
The smoke was so thick now that Melchior could sometimes see his opponent only in outline. Although his own cuts and thrusts were as precise as clockwork, somehow the assassin avoided them again and again. The man was obviously well trained.
The assassin raised his sword again, and the two blades met with an ugly scraping sound. The men’s faces were now so close that they almost touched. The black man bared his teeth in a grin. The dark smoke and flying ash had made Melchior almost as dark. They stood opposite one another in the middle of the room, like two ebony chessmen.