by Ben Hopkins
The road is mainly clear of snow, and they make good use of the remaining daylight, slowing down to a trot as frosty night draws on. As they ride into Ergisheim, the near-full moon is as bright as a winter sun, its pale light gathered and magnified by the snowbound landscape.
On the bridge over the Ehle, they can’t believe their luck. Beneath them, old Günther’s barge is gliding past on the moonlit river. They call out loudly to the deaf old man so that even he can hear them.
Günther and his boys are glad of the unexpected company. Bertle and Manfred lead their steeds onto the gently rocking barge, then Günther pushes out with his pole and the vessel slides out onto the swirling dark water.
Manfred and Bertle are still excited by the day’s events; von Fegersheim’s chivalrous act of murder, the juddering near-headless body, the heady perfume of sex in the holy brothel, the sisters’ panic, the whiff of heresy. They tell their story, hardly pausing for breath, embellishing, improvising, exaggerating, lying.
Vague in moonlight, the bone-coloured hills sink gently down towards the Rhine. Manfred and Bertle’s story finishes only as the gatehouse of Hagenburg rises above the river, etched against the Milky Way. But they do not stop here; their silent barge slides past the City’s river gate, taking the moat that bypasses the walls of Finckweiler, the building site of the Dominican monastery. Bertle and Manfred have no wish to go home to the dullard Merchant Quarter, to their parents and families. In the City, all will be quiet and dark since the ringing of the Angelus bell. One lantern burning in the Cathedral Square, some candles in the windows of disreputable taverns, but everywhere else . . . silence and darkness until dawn.
At the Rhine Harbour it will be a different story. There the zum thrunkenen Cahne never closes.
The barge ferries through the lacework of streams, tributaries and marshes formed by the Ehle’s widespread fingers as she joins her father, the Rhine. The walls of the City recede, on the banks of small islets fishermen’s coracles are gathered by stinking shacks, smoke lazes from their crooked chimneys.
Ahead, a string of swaying lanterns . . . the quay of the Docks. Barges and boats nestle together, tethered to the quay. The faint sound of a woman singing, a flute and drum. Manfred throws his arm round Günther’s shoulders. “Let me buy you and your boys a drink.”
A wall of warm air hits them as they cross the pub threshold. Fug of sweat, alcohol, smoke from the fire. It’s quite full tonight, even here in the Merchants’ Snug. In the Boatmen’s Ale Room, it must be rammed to the rafters; sounds of music and clumsy, heavy-footed dancing, drunken shouts.
Manfred sinks exhausted into a cushioned chair, orders some stew, wine and aquavit for him, Bertle, Günther. A demijohn of fine branntwein has newly come in from Ihringen; the taste of pears, apples and heavenly fire.
Two jugs of wine and three schnapps later and Manfred’s in the centre of the room dancing with the Abbess’ silky golden wig on his head. Bertle’s laughing like a monkey, and Günther’s passed out in his chair. As he dances and plays the fool, Manfred catches sight of a small, tanned, fine-coated merchant having a word in Bertle’s ear, but doesn’t take much notice, as the room is spinning in bright, moronic contentment.
Manfred falls back to the table, exhausted, takes a draft of wine, and sees the sun-wrinkled Southerner peering over at him and asking in Latin, “How much do you want for the wig?”
“Ten marks,” says Manfred, without a pause.
The Raisin smiles, shrugs. “Be serious.”
“For you, five, because I . . . happy.”
Raisin, hearing Manfred’s difficulties with Latin, switches to something like kölsch German; “Please, I am no fooling, please to say real price.” In a fight, it’s not clear who would lose; Manfred’s dog Latin, or Raisin’s mongrel German.
“You say price.”
“No, you.”
“No less than three marks. The wig was my mother’s, it reminds me of her.”
Raisin stares, silently. Bertle leans into Manfred’s ear, whispers urgently; “Roman wool merchant, runs Papal commissions. Don’t fuck this, arsehole.”
But Manfred’s enjoying himself. “What do you want it for? Your curly brown hair is lovely.”
No smile. “It’s not for me.”
“How many do you want?”
“How many can you get me?”
Pause. The spinning room stops spinning. Manfred sobers. A sudden, lurching realisation that there could be some real trade here. He erases the schnapps-sodden smirk from his stupid face. “My apologies, sir. We are celebrating a successful day’s trading. I can sell you this one now. When would you need the others by?”
“I coming this way still once again in the Immelsfar Fairs.”
“By summer I can get you five more.”
Bertle looks at Manfred, wide-eyed: What? Where will you get five blonde wigs?
But Raisin is delighted. “This is good! Good! Now you say your price.”
“For six? Twelve marks.”
Pause again. Just for one tiny instant, Raisin’s eyes flicker away towards the ceiling, thinking. “It too much.”
But Manfred saw it. He calculated. It means the price is close! Fuck the Virgin! It’s close!
“Say your price.”
† † †
They settle on two marks, two shillings upfront for the wig on Manfred’s insolent head, and then one and six each for the other five wigs, to be delivered at the Himmelfahrt fair. Manfred keeps a straight, serious face as they shake hands, and then slips outside to the wharf to let out a scream of utter joy.
In the light of the stars and the dim, swaying lanterns he looks down at the silver coins in his palm, clutches them to his breast and screams again. Now he cannot wait until dawn.
Raisin now also leaves the tavern, passing by to his rented chambers in the Cloth Exchange. Manfred hides his childish joy, assays a serious, grown-up face, and tries his best Latin. “May I ask, who for the wigs?”
Raisin shrugs. “Whores.” Manfred nods matter-of-factly. “Really?”
“In Rome this days, the blondes can charge double.” Raisin pats Manfred on the back and whistles his way down the dock.
As soon as there’s a trace of light in the sky, Manfred gathers his grumpy gelding from the stables and walks the raised road through the marshes to the Rheintor city gate, and enters just as it’s being winched open.
At home in the Merchant Quarter, he finds his Father already awake at his account books. He puts the two marks’ worth of coin down on the table and announces that, with Father’s permission, he will sell his horse to cousin Lambert for one mark and sixpence.
His Father stands, and there are tears in his eyes. He embraces his son, holding him tightly. Manfred also bursts into tears of joy. Finally the foolish son has earned his father’s respect. “My boy,” he says. “My boy.” With Manfred’s three marks, they can now afford to buy old Gregor’s boat. And now the Gerbers will have three trading boats on the Rhine. It’s true that that rich bastard Wolfram has twelve, and takes most of the trade. But now they’re in contention. In Competition. And they can near double their take.
† † †
“Madam, would you consider shaving your head and selling me your hair?”
“What the Good Lord for, young man?”
“Why, to make a wig from it.”
“Who for?”
“For a Roman whore.”
The Schlettstadt seamstress gives him a good sharp slap. Ow! No use any further patter about imagining her hair fondled by a Cardinal in a bed of purple silk by the shores of the Roman sea.
Manfred runs away, hides in an alleyway, rubs his stinging cheek, and rethinks his sales pitch. He comes up with some nonsense about the sickly but saintly Abbess of Bacharach whose hair was burned off in a fire, and a noblewoman of Brabant whose bald pate has lost her the
love of her cruel husband and . . . no matter, he’ll make it up as he goes along.
He wanders the busy streets of Hagenburg on market day, eagle-eyed for blonde ladies. Where are they when you need them?
His second attempt is an improvement, but still doesn’t count as a sale. A farmer’s wife, selling beetroot, would be more than happy to help the poor loveless Lady of Brabant and shave her head for five shillings, but then makes the mistake of telling her husband about it. He comes after Manfred with a shovel.
It’s not going well. They’ve put the downpayment on Old Gregor’s boat, but he wants three more marks by the Nativity of Our Lady at the latest. In Manfred’s plan, these three marks are coming from the wigs, so that all their other profits can go to recaulk their three-boat fleet next winter.
He wanders forlornly into the Cathedral Square, and there, in early spring sunshine, like a Cross of Gold hanging from the scaffolding of the Nave, shines the tousled flaxen head of Apprentice Stone-Cutter Rettich Schäffer.
A BASKET OF HONEY
(ANNO 1231. ODILE II)
He stands in our doorway, the Unexpected Guest.
We had heard the warning bell, and thought nothing of it. We had heard the voices in the lane outside, and thought: a passing beggar who has wandered here in the hope of alms, an unwelcome stranger, who will be shown his way back to the Pilgrims’ Road. For not many come our way, to our hidden hamlet in the banks of reeds and flax.
But the Guest had come for Me. He looks at me and says my name. “Odile. Odile. I have searched for you. Everywhere.”
He places a basket in my hands. “Do you remember me?”
“I do, My Lord.”
I fold back the cloth that covers the basket. Honey cake and honeycomb, a posy of meadow-flowers. “For me, My Lord?”
“For you, Odile.”
Footsteps behind me, and my Father’s shadow. I do not dare look in my Father’s eyes.
“Young man,” he says. “If I send you away now, will you be back one day?”
“Yes I will, Sir. I will be back.”
“Then come in now. This must be settled, for good or ill.”
† † †
I was born into this earthly form somewhere on the Lower Rhine, and two years later my sister Elise. And then, with the coming of my stillborn brother, the dark years of wandering began.
My Mother died for loss of blood. For us, so the Teachings say, this is no cause for Mourning. My Mother’s and my Brother’s souls shot like arrows into the wheel of the world, to be reborn again in Another Flesh.
Yet the midwife who pulled the stillborn boy and tried to save my dying mama—she was not one of ours. And she called the priests and the local lords, and we had to flee that place, leaving our dead behind.
We wandered South along the Rhine, and joined a group of travelling players, moving from town to town, sleeping in barns, in corners, in shacks, scavenging scraps of food like mice. In those days, the whisper went along the Rhine, if you are a Friend, make a mark on the door of your house. A white mark on the corner of your lintel, hang a white lantern above the door. It should mean, the Light is Here. In our house, is Light.
We are weavers, and where we could, we wove. But misfortune followed our steps, and we had always to hide from the Whore of Rome. We travelled the Rhine’s long river road, up and down, from Friend to Friend, from white lantern to white lintel mark on hovel doors. Until one day, in Hagenburg, this young Lord, who pressed into my hand a ring, heavy with burnished amberstone.
A ring worth a fortune that saved our lives. That bought us this loom, that bought us this shack in this hidden hamlet by Honau on the Rhine’s eastern shore. Rising from the river’s reeds and from the fields of hemp and flax, twenty wooden shacks, barns, chickens and cows. The apple and plum trees are now losing their leaves as autumn sweeps her cold, golden hand across the world.
And above the twenty silent doors, white lanterns sway in Satan’s wind.
† † †
“My name is Achim von Esinbach, I am the Dombaumeister of the Cathedral in Hagenburg. And I have come to ask you for your daughter’s hand.”
In my hand he wants to have and hold, a slice of honey cake. We do not ever eat such food. We eat lentils, dried beans, hard cheese, river fish. No meat. No sweets. No temptation of the flesh.
And yet I bite, and its sweetness melts on my wicked tongue. And I close my eyes.
My Father speaks. “I would ask you why you want her hand. But I think we all know wherefore.”
“No,” says the young Lord. “I have seen beautiful girls. But none like Odile. And none with a father such as you, Sir. I have seen you, seen you both, in my visions.”
“Visions?”
“I have a sickness, Sir, and I suffer visions.”
“And what are we in your visions?”
“You wait for me, in light. And you speak, but I cannot understand what you are saying. I have many visions. And from these visions I have designed my Cathedral. And God Willing, we will build the most beautiful church the world has seen.”
There is silence for moments; only the sounds of Elise, who is knelt studiously over her bowl, scutching flax.
My father speaks. “Beautiful or otherwise, it is all the same to God. The Lord can just as well be worshipped standing on a dungheap. Your church is vanity.”
The young Lord swallows. “It is for the Glory of God.”
“God dwelleth not in temples made with hands. The Godhead is not like unto gold or silver, or stone, graven by art and device of man.”
“God made the world and all the things therein. It is for us to learn to use them, for his glory.”
“God makes shit? Pus? Snakes?”
“He does.”
“And when your whore-priest waves his hands, bread becomes Christ, and you eat him? And in your gut, Christ turns into shit? And you squeeze Him out into a latrine?”
My father stands. Now Achim stands too, lost. The cramped shack is now crawling with shadow. Achim whispers, pale; “You are not believers . . . ?”
Father grasps Achim’s arm. “We are the true believers. There is no salvation from the Church of Rome. Only in Light. Your church is built with Gold sweated by the bastard Bishop from the serfs. Your temple is not for God, it is the Devil’s church! So leave, now. Our daughter is not for you.”
“No. Let her come to me. She will want for nothing.”
“Here she has all that she needs.”
“You deny her the hand of a Lord?”
“I deny her the hand of a corrupt, lost soul.”
Achim gasps, rushes. He stumbles on the raised threshold. For a moment his crushed, tearful silhouette hovers in the doorway, and then is gone.
† † †
The mists drift and the hemp sways, and this world is the Devil’s world. The flax shivers and the river flows, and this world is an illusion, a husk, a box of tricks.
I walk outside, and the Guest is gone, the only Guest I have ever had.
I am a sinful vessel, a puppet of vain and mortal flesh.
What right have I to Love?
ANNO
1232
THE BLACK CAT
(ANNO 1232. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN III)
The world needs clerks and lawyers in the same way as it needs leprosy, plagues, earthquakes. Without them, life would be a colourless stroll towards death. But here they are, proliferating and multiplying over the face of our earth, and taking ever more prominent positions in the chambers of power. In the olden days, virtuous rulers would surround their thrones with the flower of chivalry, but today the leaders of our world are ringed by advisers, counsellors, clerks and Jews.
I should know. I am one of this new cursèd class of quill-scratching, shadow-skulking literati, and I am well aware of the odium that my “petty penny-pinching” causes in the wider
world. Imagine my horror at finding last year’s Cathedral Accounts containing entries such as “plantation of new forest” (can one credit the insolence!) and “glass colouration experiments conducted in the Vale of Winzbach, including cost of travel and accommodation for two” . . . It goes without saying that I have deducted the cost of these indulgent follies from next year’s construction budget, with a stern warning addressed to Master Achim that he should, forthwith, start living in the same world in which the rest of humanity is sadly constrained to live; that is: a world with limits.
But the volume of clerkish paperwork that my Treasury compiles and creates is as nothing when compared with the never-ending case of the Dagsburg Inheritance.
In the Vogesen hills lies the County of Dagsburg and it is the source of all the conflict and contention in our area. The various Counts and Countesses of the small yet nevertheless richly-endowed enclave have, in the sinful panic of their deathbeds, bequeathed the riches of their inheritance to a bewildering panoply of beneficiaries; to the Bishoprics of Hagenburg, Metz and Lüttich, and to Abbeys and Hospitals in the property of the knights of Zähringen and Habsburg. I am told that the various deeds and bequests, collected together, would fill the voluminous shelves of our Chapterhouse scriptorium.
The last of the line of Dagsburg, the childless Countess Gertrud, obdurately and wickedly refuses to die. In bitter, adamant spite of the fact that her death would benefit the gathered realms of Alsace, Lorraine and Aargau, she cleaves to her withered, bilious body and never leaves her castle eyrie to any social gathering where she could conveniently be poisoned. A solitudinous eccentric, she receives no visitors, and refuses to sign any further deeds that might clarify the question of the definitive identity of her County’s legal successor.
In view of her incompliance, the paperwork has been sent to no lesser a court than the Curia in Rome. It has been there now for seven years, with all final deliberations suspended until the harridan’s much desired demise.