by Ben Hopkins
“There will be an election.”
“Fortune’s wheel is always turning, is it not? Don’t you ecclesiastics always lecture us on this point? Today a King, tomorrow a Beggar, today a Bishop, tomorrow a Leper . . . Why strive and struggle for the vainglory of this transitory world? The true Life comes after Death.”
“You should have been a priest.”
Terzani smiles, a bright, sudden smile like the slash of a knife. “But I actually believe in what I am saying.”
An uncomfortable silence settles on the room. From outside, the gentle chatter of the rain. Inside, the hall’s caretaker, a bent old man, takes his broom and starts to sweep the dusty corners. Two German Merchants are asleep at one table, their elbows touching, their peaceful snores synchronised.
Ludovico breaks the silence with a gentle cough, and pours out three glasses of red wine. His hand gestures to the table, where the account ledgers are lying open, waiting to be signed.
† † †
The news from the harbour is good; the sea wind is from the South. A propitious time to set sail along the coast for Arles and the mouth of the Rhône. With Good Fortune, we can be in Hagenburg before Lent.
Good Fortune. Terzani’s strange words have stayed with me. They echo in my mind, unwelcome visitors. Why struggle and strive for the vainglory of this transitory world? It is a question I have often posed myself, and answered thusly: all is Vanity.
All is Vanity. His Grace put the idea in my mind that I might be Bishop. Since then this idea has grown, taking on gigantesque proportions, eclipsing all my other thoughts. And why? Why am I now so concerned to become Bishop? Why will it make such a difference if I am enthroned, and not Archdeacon Heinrich von Stahlem? And will it not transform my Life into a continuous stress and torment, agonising over the exercise of power, deciding the fates of the Diocese and Upper Rhine?
Why do I therefore run towards this dream and embrace it with such passion?
And His Grace’s final request, to preserve the Cathedral as his “gift to posterity.” What is this new Cathedral if not the product of two vanities, the Bishop’s and Achim von Esinbach’s? Their desire to see their Will glorified in living stone?
My saddle bags are ready. I sit, prepared, wrapped in furs on my freezing balcony. The moon lights the bell-tower of St. Peter’s. It is an hour or more until dawn.
The journey will be a wearying one. An unruly sea, and then a land frozen in snow and ice. On our way here, it was my first crossing of the Vogesen in winter. Our horses’ legs sinking to their hocks in the drifts, in the lonely mountain villages, peasants staring at me and Hieronymus, taking us for apparitions, harbingers of disaster.
A raven followed us for three days, always flying above us, alighting always on the snow-deep road ahead, a Guide. As we descended from the frozen mountains towards the safety of Bisanz and the Burgundian plain, the Raven began to cry. And as we approached the City walls, it circled thrice above us, cawing with such insistence that we paused.
There was a Calvary by the roadside, dedicated to St. Arbogast, Hagenburg’s founding Saint. The Raven, hoarse with crying, swooped down and landed there, high up on the Calvary Cross. It uttered one last cry and then launched itself into the freezing air, heading back to the heights whence it had come.
Hieronymus turned to look at me. “This is a good omen, My Lord.”
“Don’t talk like an old woman,” I said. But, God forgive me, I had had the same thought.
And in Arles, five days later, on Sunday. After weeks of cloud, darkness, sleet and rain, there rose the most perfect Sun in a pure sapphire sky. We took Mass at the Cathedral. The sun shone through the eastern windows of the Apse, blessing the congregation with weak but long-awaited warmth.
I gave passionate thanks to God and prayed for safe journey on the seas to Genoa and Rome. My prayers took quite some time. As I left the Cathedral, it was nearly empty. The low sun shone through the stained glass, throwing my shadow, unnaturally stretched and tall, all the way up the length of the Nave. I stopped. God forgive me, but I took it as another Sign:
Around my shadowed head, a crown of golden brightness, a corona of haloed light.
† † †
Finally the Lauds bell sounds from the tower. I gather my bags, swing them over my shoulder. Call out to my men, sleeping nearby.
Inside my room, I blow out the lamp.
So much of our human striving is but Vanity. To leave a mark. A sign that we were here. A trace of our passing on this passing world.
† † †
The wind is fair, all is ready. The last merchandise is being loaded onto our barque. They will take us as far as Genoa, from where we can most certainly find a ship for Marseille. The harbour is noisy, crowded with working men and men looking for work. I retreat into the St. Christopher’s chapel to pray for a safe journey. As I kneel down before the altar, I note with wry amusement how devout I have become of late, preparing for my coming role as pastor of fifty thousand souls.
Exiting the chapel, I hear raised voices. My armed guard, three Germans, a Dane and an Englander, are exchanging words with a local gang. As I approach, I can hear the words “Emperor” “heretic” “Pope.” I sigh. Politics.
I do not know what my men-at-arms understand of politics, but I do know they profess loyalty to Emperor Friedrich but also have sworn lifelong allegiance to Mother Church (at seven shillings a week). They are probably somewhat confused.
“Come, let’s embark, forget this!” I order. But their Roman interlocutors have no wish to end the discussion. In a doggerel mix of Latin, Roman dialect, and the occasional German word (mainly, “Scheisse”), they passionately explain that the Emperor is a heretic, a homosexual and a German.
It is hardly a new discussion. “Let’s GO!” I shout, pointing imperiously at the ship.
One of the Romans approaches me. His face is scarred, his body squat but powerful. A street fighter. “What do you say, German Scheisse?”
“We have heard this discussion before, and we must leave. Good day.”
“You don’t like speak with us, Master?”
He pulls out a knife. A ridiculous blade! Shorter than my little finger, its point a cross, two tiny blades welded together. It appears more a cobbler’s awl, not a weapon. I laugh. I am almost twice as tall as him. “I am leaving now.”
Suddenly a fluttering. Something passes over my eyes, a brief shadow. I cannot move my arms.
It was a rope. It is now holding me tight. I try and cry out but the air has been taken from me by a sudden kick to the small of my back.
A leg. A leg hooks into mine, throws me. I plunge to the ground.
In a brief moment I see that the Romans have surrounded my men-at-arms, shouting. Blocking sight of me. My men have not seen me fall.
The small scarred man leaps onto my chest. Squats on me like a spider, holds aloft his hand. “This is a message to you, Tesoriere. From your Roman friends.”
I now understand the little blade. But it is too late.
His hand strikes down, the strike of a serpent, into my eye. He pushes, tears from side to side. I scream, but his left hand is over my mouth. The pain makes my body convulse in waves, but I am trussed like a Christmas Eve pig, and his unseen accomplice’s hands hold me fast.
“You understand?” he says.
“Please . . . ” I beg. Pointlessly.
His hand strikes down again. A shudder of pain, a thud. A spasm of light flashes in my mind.
A final image. His scarred face, grinning.
Immediately he jumps from my chest. I can feel his weight going into some unseen void. The rope is released. The two hands that were holding my head slip away. I can hear voices, the argument. The argument is suddenly over. The sound of running feet, shouts, screams. Milling chaos. Footfalls around my supine body. The gang is escaping.
�
�My Lord! My Lord! My Lord!”
I want to cry, but there is nothing to cry with. Blood is washing over my face in the place of tears. My throat convulses into sobs.
And in my mind. That beautiful sight, in Arles Cathedral, after Communion. The sun behind me, and my shadowy head crowned in mocking gold.
FOUR SACKS OF tURNIPS, TWO POUNDS OF RICE
(MANFRED GERBER VII. ANNO 1243)
It doesn’t get any easier. Each time he straps on his sword, fastens his chainmail, dons his helmet, the fear of death loosens his bowels, paints his face pasty white. He tries to control it, plays with his moustache, smoothes his beard, gives orders, makes jokes to the men, but it’s always there, a pressure, seeking release. His stomach juices sluice through his guts, his hands twitch and sweat.
And so here he is, Captain Manfred, squatting on the latrine at the barge’s stern, letting it all out into the Rhine’s grey waters.
Setting a fine example, for sure.
None of the men seems to care. A cheap, desperate lot, lured from the Rheintorgässel with the promise of silver. Labourers, pimps, thieves. Using vermin to chase out vermin. God willing, he, Bertle, Rolo and the other Town Watch soldiers can keep them bridled.
This weather doesn’t know what it wants to be. Dawn came up bright and sharp, frosting the grass of the riverbank. As they struck camp and slipped their moorings, they slid into a bank of white, drifting mists. And now, gliding into the eddying water, soft flakes of late winter snow.
Manfred splashes some water on his arse and ties his braies. Hitches his armour back into position. Walks the length of the boat, patting shoulders, punching arms. Primping his own Courage into bloom. “Get ready, men, we’ll be there soon. From now on, silence. Not a bloody word.”
He reaches the prow. Günther is ship captain. Old, deaf, but no one knows the waters better. He points his bony finger at the reeds and banks of silt half-seen in the mist. “The Albe,” he whispers, “prepare to row.” Günther signals to his puntmen. They raise their poles as Günther steers into the upriver swell.
The men slide out the oars, dip and pull. The puntpoles slide into the silt, push, and come up slick with freezing slime. The barge turns, lists, heavy with its cargo of men.
Those not rowing steady themselves against the rocking with their spears, clubs, swords. The barge lurches as it finds its new course, sends two men tumbling. Stifled laughter. Manfred turns, shows a stern face: Silence!
Günther has turned it well, ruddering through the banks of silt into the only clear channel in the labyrinth of weeds and sand. A canal not much wider than the boat, lined with mud and rushes, leading into drifting mist.
No turning back.
† † †
In the meagre first days of Lent, Manfred meets with his fellow Merchants at the Morning Altar, they thresh out the plans for the coming, fatter months. All is in tension. The City awaits the return of Eugenius von Zabern from Rome, the Convocation of the Great Chapter, the Election of the new Bishop.
Manfred walks with Wikerus the grain merchant up and down the length of the Nave. Wikerus needs a boatload of grain transported from the granaries of the Meuse to arrive in Hagenburg in time for Easter Week.
“Prices are going up, Wikerus. Name me one thing that costs the same as last year. Listen, old man, even the priests are charging more for funerals. When it’s getting more expensive to Die, then you really know . . . ”
Wikerus holds up his hand. “Wait, Gerber, something’s happening.” A ripple of rumour is snaking its way through the Cathedral crowds.
Outside, the Lent market-stalls are mean, bare. Between the melancholy trestle tables of cabbages, turnips and kale, a ragged procession is making its way. From all directions, the Curious come, a noisy tide of gossipers that then ebbs into silence.
Manfred and Wikerus join the hushed crowd. At the centre they can see two clerics, both tall and stooping. A voice says, “It is this way, Sire, we are nearly there.” Hieronymus, the Treasury Clerk. He is guiding someone over the cobblestones.
It is von Zabern. His proud head bowed, shadowed by his cowl. An invalid, a beggar, led by Hieronymus’ underling hand. A staff, like a pilgrim’s, he holds before him, feeling the air. And then his head sweeps upwards and the crowd exhales. Two black, encrusted Wounds where should be his Eyes.
† † †
Screams. Hoarse, full-throated. Inhuman.
Sweeping down through the mist, fluttering shapes, then twisted arms.
A willow, leaning over the river. And fighting in its branches, two jackdaws and a crow. The loud retort of wings like the sound of a pennant whipped by a high wind. Some of the men cross themselves. The willow’s bony fingers scrape the deck.
The reeds and rushes are thinning out now, the banks becoming more solid, formed. On one side, the mist is clearing, revealing flooded, churned fields of muddied ice.
Manfred stands on the prow, looking for a sign of human life.
Two coracles pulled up on the shore. Logs laid across marshy puddles; a jetty. A path dug by struggling feet zig-zagging up the bank.
This is it.
Fingers to his lips, Manfred gives the signal to land. Already five torches are burning in the hands of the Rheintorgässel men. This is a raid of destruction, retribution. No mercy, no house left standing, no prisoners.
Manfred crosses himself, faces the men.
A whisper. “Let’s go.”
† † †
A darting flash of iron. A spark flies from the nose-piece of his helmet, burns his eye. The blade glances, slicing his cheek. His left arm sweeps out, grabbing the shaft.
The bandit tugs hard, tries to pull his spear back. But Manfred holds fast. With his right he flails with his sword. A panicked strike, but a good one. The bandit’s arm cut to the bone. The spear comes loose into Manfred’s grasp. A Rheintorgässel pimp grabs the spear, flips it round, plunges it into the bandit’s fleeing neck.
One more down. Smoke gutters from the sodden straw rooves. The pirates are running. Some are already in coracles, paddling like drowning puppies. Others plunge and flail in the mud, grabbing at the boats’ tottering sides. Three or four tear along the embankment, heading for the highway, pursued by Rolo and his men.
Five, who stayed to fight, lie dead or dying in the mud.
Blood stings Manfred’s eye. Its salty, metallic taste in his mouth. He holds his sleeve to the wound. Just a small cut, but deep. He’ll have a scar! Girls will trace their soft fingers along it and he’ll tell the story, pulling them onto his lap. He laughs with manic excitement, feels like vomiting, holds it back.
He turns the dying man over with his feet. The bandit’s eyes flutter, roll. His limbs twitch, reach spastically for his neck, where it hurts. His mouth spits, looking for purchase on the Word he so much wants to say. “Mmmmur, mmur.” Murder? Mummy? Mercy?
“Who’s your leader? Where is he?” shouts Manfred, kicking the man’s ribs.
The pirate grins, a bitter rictus. “You’ll . . . never . . . find him. Bast . . . ard. He’ll . . . kill . . . you. Bast . . . ”
His mouth stops moving. Yawns, lips curling back from his teeth. Face contorts into a scowling skull. The last slack tremors and then rigidity.
So that’s what Dying looks like. It doesn’t look like much fun.
Manfred strides into one of the huts. Hammocks, sacks of straw gathered round a central fireplace. Smoke-blackened wicker-work of branches, wattle. A threadbare haunch of meat, sacks of turnips. A pot of uncooked rice.
His cheek throbs, stings. He should wash the wound. His mind is racing, high with excitement. He needs time to think.
“Is this a joke?” It’s the Rheintorgässel pimp who speared the bandit, grabbing Manfred’s shoulder. The Pimp looks at him, eyes dark and hostile. He kicks at the turnips. “Is this our booty?”
“You’ll get
your money. Calm down.”
The Pimp’s hand flashes out, grabs Manfred’s jerkin at the neck. “I saved your life.”
“No you didn’t.”
“They said there would be booty. Not fucking turnips.”
Time to leave. Set fire to the place and get out before Mutiny can whisper and spread. “You’ll get your money. I need to wash my wound.”
Manfred strides back outside, where the smoke is thickening. Bertle is coming out of the third hut, shares a look with Manfred, shakes his head. Nothing.
Manfred thinks of the stolen cargoes. Coin, silks, tapestries, rolls of Flemish cloth, raw wool from England, wine. Copper from the Harz, swords from Magdeburg. Amber, soap, perfume. Grain.
“Bertle,” he whispers. “Where is it? Did they spend it all?”
“Be happy, Fredle. These bastards won’t trouble us no more.”
A butt, full of rainwater. Manfred kneels beside it, scoops up icy handfuls and cleans his wound. The first hut’s roof falls in, consumed by fire. Sparks somersault upwards, meeting the sparse snow as it spirals down.
All gone. Sold? Hidden? And these men, squatting in misery through the bitter winter in makeshift huts, waiting for the spring trade to return. What profit did they have from it? Just hired mercenaries?
If so, then hired by Whom?
Father Arnold gets down from the boat. On a normal day he sweeps the Cathedral steps and says mass at a side altar in St. Peter’s by the Vogesen Gate. They hired him for a shilling; the cheapest they could get. But he’s ordained, and God listens to what he says.
He starts his work, waving his cross and chanting over the dead. Nine bandits, two of ours; Rheintorgässel thieves who got themselves in the way of a blade. The Priest gets an extra sixpence for every Last Rite he gives. He was probably praying for a massacre.
“Start digging a pit for their nine. We’ll take our two back with us,” says Manfred to the gaggle of cold, disenchanted men standing by the pillaged sacks of turnips and the pot of rice. “There are shovels on board.”