by Ben Hopkins
The source of their unexpected joy has already left them to his quarters above the Cloth Exchange, where all the wealthier Latins stay. His name is Renzo, a collecting agent for the Pope and Curia, who spends his life drifting through the German lands and escorting consignments of wool, wine and silver to his Roman masters.
And tonight he brought them the news from Rome. Not news that will be shared with the citizens of Hagenburg, for Uto will not cry the Bishop’s ruin. And in one breath, the news is: Treasurer-Bastard got his arse fucked in Rome.
And how they fucked him! “He bend over so nice for us!” exclaims Renzo, pinching his thumb and forefinger together in a Florentine expression of delectability. “A little plum . . . .”
Renzo switches between faulty, accented Rhenish German and racy Tuscanised Latin. Difficult to follow at times, but always flavoursome, spicy. The Terzani family they reeeeeel him in like a fishy, they give him a slicey, they gutting him good, sprinkle some timo here some rosmarino, they eat him all up and cacca him out into the sewer. Nearly two thousand marche they gutting him! And for what? For zero, zilcha, nihil, nix. Salute!
Renzo downs a glass of Dietzheimer. He’s bought a whole keg for the table, and has his own beautiful Venetian wineglass, with a delicate, rose-coloured stem.
I see him today to collect my annual tribute. Normally he try some chitty-chatty, some how is Holy Father and this and thatty, but today he look how you say . . . constipato. Like he wait for ten days to shit. He say nothing. Just: “Herr Renzo.” Renzo’s face contorts into the grave, constipated face of Treasurer von Zabern. His voice drops to an Alsatian bass, sober and sombre. The assembled Morning Altar merchants dissolve into hysterics. Their noses are flowering, rose and maroon. “Herr Renzo. This year I give you only sicteen barrel.”
Only sicteen, Signore Treasurato? But what will I say to Big Pappa?
The booming, von Zabern voice again: Say what you like. It is sicteen barrels this year.
He is a bit angry, isn’t it true? Like little boy he is shaking his little fist at Big Pappa. We’ll see, we’ll see.
The Terzani, they are clever. They do everything right for Treasurer, for Haggenburgo. They take his money, they bribe the right officials, they give Vonnalazzabberna the right contacts, they bring him two new Cardinali to be friends of Haggenburgo, they do everything so nicely, and Vonnalazzabberna is paying and paying and paying.
Just one thing they do not tell him.
“And what’s that?”
That the Dagsburgo decision has already been made. Three years before.
Laughter falls like confetti, spring blossom. The Germans slam their tankards down, turn the spigot, fill with wine.
And everyone knows it, apart from Lazzabberna! Pappa is no fool, he is a Conti from Agnani, they are all banditi. For years he pretend he make no decision, and so all you German sheephead cretini, you throwing money at him, at the Cardinali, from Aaggenburgo, from Metzi, from Liodium, from the Absburgi, the Zerringhi, o you German names are too hard, I am drinking again, salute!
Cheers as another glass is downed. Renzo’s fine little glass wouldn’t drown a mouse, and even after five toasts, he’s still sober enough. The Alsatians, however, who each time down a sizable tumbler . . . their world is sliding into fug, fog and nonsense.
All you tedeschi-germanichi-cretini keep on throwing your money at the banditi from Agnani, gold and silver, for years and years, and all the time the Pappa knows what he will do anyway with Daggasburga inheritance, with all those lands and those castles, all that mud and forest and pigs.
“And so what was it? The decision?”
He divide it equally between the parties! Why should he do different? He wants to make no enemy! Just a bit extra he give the Habbasburghi, because he want them to go and fukka the Staufani.
Renzo shrugs, raises his glass again. Congratulations, Aggenburgo! You now have new lands in the Vosgesi, new cold freezing castles, new fields of mud, new piggies! But it has cost you so much, more than it is worth. And your Bishop, so rich, is now so poor. And the Terzani fuck Treasurato so nicely. Like a nice ripe fruit! Salute!
Cheers! The Dietzenheimer flows.
It all fits together.
Manfred stumbles outside to the warm spring evening. Lanterns hang from ropes along the quay, pools of light glow from barges where boatmen are hanging their hammocks for the night. The lights are broken in the water’s surface. Damp, fragrant air, the resurgence of spring.
It all fits together. Treasurer-Fucker’s visit to his house, the questioning of Elise. To brand Dombaumeister Achim a heretic and halt the work, cut the workforce, save money. Von Zabern, badly bruised from his arsefucking in Rome, comes back to take revenge on the thing he hates the most, the biggest drain on his funds. The Cathedral.
It all fits together. Manfred must meet with the other merchants tomorrow. They will need cash. Silver you can bite on and break your teeth. Soon. As soon as the Cathedral masons are laid off, and in shock. Then offer them a helping hand, employment building the new Merchants’ Church. At half the price.
Manfred turns his head to the heavens. Stars are faint behind a warm veil of cloud and riverine mist. But they are there, dim, half-seen, promising the granting of wishes. Did I really deserve this Good Fortune? he asks the stars, his father’s ghost, that distant, unseen God. Did I?
Shouting. The door bursts open and the drunken rabble of his friends flops onto the wooden boards of the quay. Friedel the Draper’s already ripping his trousers off, and Hagar’s leading out the band and Lisalinda the whore to sing.
Shirts, socks and hose thrown to the quay. Screeches, abandon. Hands pull at Manfred’s laces. “Come on you ginger bastard, you can swim.”
Is there any point in resistance?
THE MINOTAUR
(ANNO 1235. RETTICH SCHÄFFER V)
A day of high wind, coursing downriver from the Aargau, carries with it the scent of new life. On the washing lines the shapes of human bodies sketched in hose and blouse, smock and tunic, quiver, flutter. It is a day of hurry, of action. No-one can sleep or tarry whilst the air itself is agitation, invigoration and dance.
On the steps of the Tollhouse, Uto rings his bell. The scattered townsfolk, hurrying through the whirling winds, race to form an audience. Uto himself is crying today, not one of his boys. It means that something important may have happened.
Uto’s apprentices and helpers stand behind him on the stairs. They will learn his cry, and then take it to the parishes; to St. Stefan’s and St. Lorenz, to the shacks of the poor by the Rhine Gate, to the merchants’ huts and the warehouses of the harbour, to the tall, fine gabled houses by the Bishop’s Palace. And from these places, the passing carters, beggars and wandering monks will take the news into the fields, to the villages, to the distant cities beyond the horizon.
Uto’s bell comes to rest, he cups its ringing bowl in his sausage fingers.
“Honoured people, hear me!” he bellows from the top of the stairs, “Citizens, gather and hear me!”
Passing the three-pound bell to his Boy, his hands now free, he strikes a pose. One hand on his ample stomach, one raised aloft. The news will be tragic, dramatic, of portent.
“The word comes from Wimpfen, beyond the Black Forest, that King Heinrich has accepted defeat from his father’s hands. He has knelt before Emperor Friedrich, his father, he has bowed his head, he has been stripped of his crown. Citizens of Hagenburg, behold the price of rebellion against one’s own father! King Heinrich is King no longer, he is a prisoner. He will be conveyed from his German Lands to a fortress in the far south beyond the mountains. He will face shame and ignominy. The traitor’s treachery has been punished. Amen.
“Citizens, Emperor Friedrich’s second son, by Yolande of Jerusalem, has been named as the new King of the Germans. He is already King of Jerusalem, his name is Konrad, a good German name! And hear this,
he is six summers old!”
The townsfolk laugh at the idea of their new minuscule King. Their new sovereign, with his wooden sword, his playthings, his big crown falling from his golden head.
Rettich sees a picture in his mind of the King of Jerusalem, now King of the Germans. A flax-haired boy, riding upon a Lamb. In his upraised arm, a banner, carrying a flag announcing the coming of Christ. Rettich closes his eyes, smiles, feels the sun on his hair, feels the buffeting winds on his cheeks.
“Hagenburgers! Bid welcome to a citizen of promise, of integrity, of honour! I give to you Reichart, known as Rettich! Rettich Schäffer, formerly of Lenzenbach, Honourable Companion of the Guild of Stone-cutters! Present yourself, Companion Rettich!”
Rettich, laughing with embarrassment, mounts the last few steps, with his wife Ällin’s arm crooked in his, to the applause of the crowd.
“Five years ago, my ladies, my gentlemen, Rettich came from the hills to pay his tithes. Arriving at the Cathedral, he walked up to the Masons and asked them ‘Pray tell, where is the Bishop? I need to give him my taxes!’”
The crowd dissolves in laughter.
† † †
Happy day. Companion Rettich, Ällin, already with child, Grete, Manfred and their baby son Manfredle, Emmerich, now fully grown, tall, bearded and wrapped in a cloak trimmed with fine red squirrel fur, Mechthild and Amaline, their husbands and children. All ranged round the Gerber hearth, with roast lamb, lentils and red Burgundy wine.
The last time they had gathered together had been his wedding day, last summer. A modest gathering, bakers and stonecutters, masons and millers. Wine and dancing, a flute and drum. A wedding jester, with new, feeble jokes for the occasion. If the Schäffers fall on hard times, they can always sell their children’s hair to their in-laws! Will Ällin soon have a loaf in her oven? Can she keep it warm nine moons long?
That eve, in their bedchamber in the boarding house on the Steinmetzgass, they come together in coy twilight. By the light of seven candles, Ällin disrobes for him. Slowly. One garment at a time. Her milky body blooms pale in the dark room. The air is fragrant with plum blossom scattered by the bridesmaids.
Rettich’s freckled cheeks are blushing with shame. She takes his hands, lifts his bridegroom’s smock.
Shy and trembling, they are in each other’s arms, they are lying together.
Rettich never went with Emmle to the Women’s House beyond the city walls. He knows little of what to do. But Ällin has taken whispered lessons from her friends, her aunts and confidantes. She reaches between Rettich’s legs, and he gasps. She rubs and pulls, like milking a cow, her hands damp with sweat and ardour. Rettich closes his eyes, lets his body respond. Eyes still unseeing, he is pulled on top of his young, panting wife, and she guides him inside her.
“Push,” she whispers. “Push, my love.”
He has seen the rams, the bulls, the billy goats, he knows what he should do. He pushes, her maidenhead tears, gives way. She gasps. He falls inside. Groans with sudden joy.
He lays his shameful head against her neck, and they writhe and rock together, sweat and moan.
They are husband and wife.
† † †
Eugenius von Zabern, the Bishop’s Treasurer, his face still bronzed from his year in Rome, stands upon a block of sandstone and tells them the news they already feared. Last year, the workforce was cut by one in five. Now there is a further cut: one in four. The plans of Dombaumeister Achim von Esinbach will be frozen. Evidence has arisen that he was a heretic, that he was in the cult of the Cathars of Honau. His plans must be investigated by the Chapter to see if they contain secret heretical influence.
Meanwhile a more modest building plan will be drafted. A new Dombaumeister will be found. Thank you for listening. Get back to work.
Sullen faces and scowls. The porters and apprentices kick at loose stones. “Lose one in four of your pension’s gold marks!” shouts a Mason at von Zabern’s back as he strides away towards his counting house. “Lose one in four of your banquets. One in four of your palfreys. One in four of your silver plates!”
The Treasurer doesn’t turn. A Judas in black and silver, with his heavy cross, his boots of Cordoban leather, he rounds the corner of the Apse wall without a word.
Waiting nearby, Rettich’s brother in law, Manfred, wearing a grim smile.
“Don’t be downhearted, my friends!” he shouts to the milling, grumbling labourers. “Our new church of St. Niklaus needs working hands! I will take two dozen after the Annunciation Fair! We pay nearly as well as the Bishop. And our soup is better.”
Nearly as well? They pay only just over half. The porters, carters, mortarers rush to Manfred, calling out their names.
In the Lodge, Rettich looks to his Master Giselbert, who nods reassuringly. Rettich’s position is safe. It would be cruelty indeed to lay him off now, only one Sunday before his Companionship, with his first child on the way.
Shadows in the Lodge doorway. The Treasurer’s soldiers, the Treasurer’s Clerks. “We’re taking von Esinbach’s drawings for examination.”
Brother Alenard stands, holds up his hand, demanding pause. “Tell me this. If this is a matter of suspected heresy, why is it the Treasury that is running things?”
Clerk Hieronymus arches an eyebrow. “It is we who uncovered von Esinbach’s connections with the weavers of Honau. We will pass materials to the correct authorities once we have collected them all. Until then they shall be in our safekeeping. Proceed.”
He waves his hand, a gesture of power, borrowed from his overlord von Zabern. The soldiers clatter into the lodge, steel-capped boots on the worn wooden floor, and start to tear all the technical drawings down. And Rettich gives thanks to the Lord that he had taken all the other designs, the ones secreted in the “escritoire,” and brought them to safety in Monastery Avenheim.
† † †
The roads are full of peasants and tradesmen, making their way to Hagenburg for the Annunciation Fair. Girls in bright kerchiefs ride on the back of oxcarts, farmers bent double under wicker baskets carry cured hams and sausages from the winter’s slaughtered swine. Laughter, chatter and expectation throng the well-trodden roads to the Vogesen passes, newly opened by the thaw. Rettich is one of the few riding westwards, rising away from the greening valley.
The monastery buildings squat on empty, muddy fields, snakes of mist curl around the silent belltower. Rettich dismounts and knocks on the door. He waits.
The gateway arch is made from Kronthaler sandstone—he recognises it immediately; the quarry of his first apprenticeship, five years before. His hand reaches out, smoothes the damp stone, stained by fine films of rain now drifting from the hills. In the corner of the stone, the Steinmetz has made his mark: ⍢. Soon, Rettich must choose his own signature to carve in the stones he works. His fingers feel the grooves cut by the chisel in practised, familiar blows . . .
“Who’s there?” comes the voice from the silence beyond the door.
“I’ve come to visit Master Achim.”
The gatekeeper opens the spyhole, looks at him darkly. “I’ve been told to record the names of those who visit him.”
“You know who I am. I’ve been here often enough.”
Achim is in his cell. A board for a bed, a basin, a lectern, a stool. His eyes are dim today, it seems that maybe he has been weeping. He embraces Rettich, gives him the kiss of peace, says nothing.
Rettich sits beside him on the board, holds his hand. Sometimes they have sat like this whilst the Hours pass by, from Sext to Nones, without saying a word. Outside, silence creeps the corridors, the window frame judders softly, buffeted by the uncertain wind.
Rettich breaks the silence. “By Sunday I will be a Companion! If God is willing . . . ”
Achim turns to look at Rettich. His eyes are sad, but he tries a smile. Rettich grasps his hand more firmly.
Achim’s shoulders form the shadow of a shrug.
“Your humours are imbalanced, an evil planet is working on you. You will recover and we will prove that what you saw came from God. I know it.”
Achim faintly shakes his head.
“Master, I need to take the drawings, all the drawings that I brought here to you. They will be safer with me. If those vultures find them here, they will impound them and see what they choose to see, I need to keep them safe until we can find a Champion for you, someone to stand up for you, someone on the Chapter, I don’t know, the Dean, the Pope, God himself, the Stettmeister, the Count of Habsburg . . . ”
Achim holds up his hand, smiling at Rettich’s gabbling.
“So, Master, where are they? Your drawings? The ones I brought. From the escri, the escrit, from the box thing?”
Master Achim’s smile fades. “Rettich.” His voice croaks, rasps, like a leper’s.
“Master?”
“I burned them.”
“Burned them! God in Heaven, what a sin! All of them?”
“Except the Rose. The Rose I kept . . . And I hid it well.”
† † †
He can still see them in his mind’s eye.
So many times, alone in the Lodge, he has gazed on them. Sometimes, together with the Master, when his mind was whole, he has studied them. The statues of the Prophets, rising from the deserts, wild-haired, right hand uplifted to God, eyes upraised, receiving visions. The Girl, Adoration, her ivory hand held in offering. He has seen them all, and remembers them, penstroke for penstroke.
Tears film his eyes as he leads his weary donkey home. Burned them?
He can re-draw them. His hand is not like his Master’s, but it will be a start. And then he can show them to him, and as sure as God is Good, Achim will smile censoriously, pick up his pen once more, and correct Rettich’s uncertain work. His Cathedral will be born again.