by Ben Hopkins
Two weeks before the Assumption, and this summer eve finds him at the Ehle Wharf Tavern, waiting for his brother Emmerich. He is on his second pitcher, and it feels as if the sun has been setting forever, bejewelling the Ehle’s waters with dancing coins.
Rettich has his own wine glass, stout and greenish, a gift from the glassmakers on the Nanzig road. He pours out another glass of Rhenish gold, holds it up to the sinking orb of the sun, lets the rays filter through, play upon his drunken face. Fractured and swimming in the glass, a figure, striding towards him. His little brother, late on the hour.
Rettich lowers the glass. “Your health, brother. Here.” Emmerich wipes his mouth with his sleeve, drinks a long draft. “Thank you, brother.” He sinks down to the bench and they look out over the gently flowing Ehle, the tethered, bobbing river barges. “How’s trade, Emml? How are Schäffer and Associates?”
“Wonderful. Trade’s good. Strong. If only the Bishop didn’t take half of it in taxes.”
“Lower your voice, Emml, you never know who’s listening.”
A lustre in Emmerich’s eyes, sarcasm, amusement. He holds up his hands. “So, let them come and examine our books of account and see if it is not true! I’m still allowed to speak the truth, am I not?”
“Probably not.”
“And your work, big brother? Building a Wall between the Church and the People she’s meant to save?”
“Yes. But it’s a pretty wall. And your taxes pay my pretty wages. So thank you. I’ll pay for the wine.”
“Looks like you’ve had a pitcher already.”
“I have. Whilst waiting for you.”
“A Rhine boat is late, I was waiting for it. It’s still not come in.”
The brothers look at each other. Emmerich’s eyes narrow. “So. Why did you ask to see me? What’s this about, brother?”
Rettich sighs. “Emmerich. It’s time you got married. You should have been wed years ago.”
“Oh, My Lord. Did Our Sister put you up to this?”
Rettich looks up to Heaven, raises his hands, palms upward in despair. Of course our sister put me up to this. Who else?
Emmerich shrugs. “No reputable woman will marry me because I work with the Jews. And what’s the point of marrying a disreputable woman? Why not—beg your pardon—just fuck her and pay her sixpence? Like I normally do?”
Rettich can’t help smiling. “What if Our Sister, in Her Greatness and Grete-ness, were able to find you a Bride?”
“What. Has she?”
“No, not to my knowledge. But she’s offered it.”
“Yes, let her try. It would be useful to be married, after all.”
“Useful?”
“Marriage hides a multitude of sins, doesn’t it, Brother?”
“Emmerich?”
The brothers look at each other, intently. It’s Rettich who looks away first.
“How’s Ällin these days, Rettlein?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Emmerich nods, drinks from the glass. Silence stretches out a while. When he speaks, he speaks softly. “Is it yours?”
Rettich looks at his hands, shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. The words are hardly audible; “We’ve come to an understanding.”
“I follow you.”
Rettich’s hands twitch, wrench up and cover his ears. Emmerich takes one of his hands, pulls it away. “So what? In our village, we all knew everyone’s secrets. Boys sleeping together, adultery, village fair fucks. Didn’t we? And what happened?”
“We laughed at them.”
“That’s right.”
“But I’ve been dismissed from teaching. No-one looks me in the eye.”
“Well, they say it’s a sin.”
“It is a sin.”
“So is Usury. So is working for the Jews. We’re filthy sinners, Rettich, us both.”
“Master Emmerich?” A plangent voice halts their words. Emmerich wheels round. The voice seems to come from a dark silhouette, haloed by the copper light reflected from the waters below. “Master?”
Emmerich stands. “Is that you, Markl?”
The silhouette rises from the waters of the Ehle, disembarking from a coracle. He holds out his hands and helps another, older man from the boat. They come up the wharf steps to the side of the tavern, and the setting sun’s amber light.
Emmerich goes pale as he sees the older man. “Ulrich?” A bandaged head, black with blood. Ulrich nods, his eyes are pained as he grasps Emmerich’s hands.
Emmerich swallows with fear. “What happened? Come, sit. Rettich, pour wine.”
Ulrich drinks, holds his bruised back as he eases himself onto the bench. He breathes in. “Master Emmerich. The Albe River Bandits are back.”
“What? From the dead?”
Ulrich laughs a bitter laugh. “Yes. They came on us like ghosts. From the forest banks. The Watzenau forest. Suddenly they were all around us in coracles, pulled the boat ashore.”
“And what did they take?”
“Every penny, every bale, every grain. We had four passengers, and they took them too. Two women, two men.”
“Took them?”
“The women were young. Attractive. The men, I don’t know what for.”
“How many were there of them?”
“Twenty? Thirty? And they didn’t just take our boat today, Master. They took two more.”
“O Lord. Three boats in a day?”
Ulrich nods. And drinks again.
“Old man, what did they do to you?”
Ulrich looks up. His eyes reflect the last light of the sky. “There was a man. Tall, powerful. Scar down his cheek. He had full, proper armour, chainmail, like a Knight. I thought he was the leader, but no. He asked me, ‘Are you the Captain of the boat?’ and I said, ‘Yes,’ and he said, ‘Come with me, our Leader wants to give you a message.’ And so they took me ashore, and into the woods. We walked some time, through the thickets, with the branches tearing at us. I thought they were taking me there to kill me, like an animal. But then we came to a clearing with a fire, a hut, some men, women making food . . . and that’s where the Leader was.”
“Who is he?”
Ulrich looks down. “He wore a helmet that had a leather front, covering his face. Only holes for his eyes. I couldn’t see him. He turns to me, and he has a strong, deep voice. He says, ‘Tell them at Hagenburg, tell them at Speyer, tell them at Worms. I’ll be collecting from you. I’ll be collecting the Toll that’s mine.’ And I look up at him and ask, ‘What is your name, Sire?’ and he takes a stick and beats me like a dog, beats my back, and then my head. And I’m screaming and the blood is running all over my face and eyes, and he says, ‘You bastard. Tell them I don’t have a Name. Tell them that he who sees my face will die.’”
ANNO
1246
THE STERNKAMMER
(BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL II. ANNO 1246)
Let’s make an inventory of your assets says my fiduciary counsel Emmerich Schäffer. He’s dangerous, this Schäffer. He knows too much. Where all our money is, all our property. Knows my wife the Baroness, my Mistress Elise, my bastards with her, all my affairs. But the Baroness and I give him chests full of silver to play with, speculate, invest, and instead of running off with them into the woods, he writes them all down in those ledgers of his, and, at the end of each year, gives us More Money back than we lent him at the beginning.
He’s some kind of Magician or something. Where would I be without him?
Item one. Ancestral von Kronthal lands, Kron river valley. From Mohrmünster east to Kirchheim, from the Hägen hills to where the Kron meets the Ehle.
Assets in the von Kronthal ancestral lands: seven vineyards, five grain-fielded estates: wheat, spelt and rye. Four farmsteads. Two mills on the Kron. Two quarries: providing Hagenburg cathedral with stone. Seven
and ninety serf families, working the land.
Item two: Forest, hunting lands: von Kronthal ancestral land. Aagenau forest, East of the Karrenbach, West of the Rhine. Thirty-nine serf families: swineherds and foresters.
Assets: Saw mill, produces timber for Hagenburg cathedral, and Hagenburg town builder Fritzl Bayer.
Swine meat; four dozen carcasses a year. Sold at Christmas market, Hagenburg. Has right to be put up for sale before all other swine meat at market, except the Bishop’s.
Item three: Fishing and shipwreck booty rights, West Bank of the Rhine, the length of Aagenau forest. Thirteen serf families: fishermen, ferryman, tollmaster.
Assets: Aagenau ferry toll for crossing Rhine. Aagenau Rhine toll charged on all passing ships not registered in Hagenburg or Basel.
Item Four: Grazing rights, high pastures, west of Chapel Pass, south of Bishop’s Lenzenbach border, north of Zabern-Nanzig highway: ancestral land of the Baroness, née von Moder. Twenty-three serf families, shepherds, cowherds.
Assets: Raw wool tithes, dependent on yield. Two score cattle carcasses, ten score sheep carcasses tribute annual. Sold at Zabern market, where it is the first meat to be sold.
Item Five: City property of the Baroness, née von Moder. Zabern: the streets that line the Zabern river, both sides: thirty seven hearths, paying annual rent.
Item Six: Hagenburg: City property of the von Kronthals; between Rhein and Mayenz gates, North from Brandplatz, West from Barfüsserplatz. Three hundred and seventeen hearths; annual rents.
Item Seven: Winzingtal, Aargau/Black Forest borders, ancestral property of the Baroness, née von Moder. Mixed forest and grazing land, hunting rights, woodcutting rights. Fifty-nine serf families.
Schäffer pauses, his quill poised above the blank parchment. These bloody clerks, they think that with their pens they can do anything. Defeat enemies, “consolidate assets,” save the world.
“Bring me some more wine, Schäffer, I’m just drinking dregs here.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
We’re in his offices in the Ehlestrasse, a former store and warehouse. Very fine. Glass-paned windows look out on the Zollturm and the dock; the wharf, the city wall and the river gate. Outside the doorway, the Hagenburg crowds weave and swarm. Lord knows where all these damn people come from. What business do they all have here?
“My Lord.” A female voice in my ear. The ruddy-faced Serving Girl, curtseying, proffering me a glimpse of her milkmaid’s tits and a fresh draught of wine. “Thank you, girl.” I take the goblet and stretch out my legs, warm in leather hose and riding cote. I’m in from Kronthal Castle, on my way to Schwanenstein and Sweet, Mad Elise.
Schäffer is back at his books, waving the Girl away. He frowns. “This is the situation, my Lord. We couldn’t make you any money this year. Our returns are down. Everybody’s returns are down. And it’s only because of our skill at investment that you didn’t lose any money this year. Almost everybody else did.”
“Why?”
“The River Bandits, my Lord. That . . . and the tense situation. Wars in Hessen, Lombardy. Pope against Emperor. It makes everyone . . . nervous. And they keep their money in their wallets.”
Schäffer’s long finger circles in the air and then points at his ledger. “My advice, my Lord, would be to sell your wife’s lands in the Aargau borders.”
“Sell my land? Have you gone mad?”
“It is an isolated parcel a long way from the rest of your property. It will be difficult to defend if it comes to a war. And it is always useful to have easily transportable assets in troubled times. Coin, my Lord. And war could easily spread. From Lombardy, from Hessen, could it not?”
† † †
War is coming. Let it come. We in the Sternkammer are ready for it.
The Pope is hiding in his miserable fortress in Lyon, and from his wicked hands, a river of gold is flowing to buy his allies and armies, to put this upstart Heinrich Raspe on the German throne. The Bishops of Mayenz, Cologne, Hagenburg have kissed the Papal ring, cashiered the Gold, fed it through their fatty fingers to their cronies and vassals, and declared for Raspe.
And We are increasingly alone. Those families of Alsace whose hand has been furthered and strengthened by the Staufen dynasty, we have wealth, but not the bottomless purse of Rome. We meet at the Tavern of the sign of the Star, zum Sterne, and call our secret society the Sternkammer. We talk about how we can help each other, pool resources, stand up against the Pope, the Bishop and his vassals. How we can hold on to what is ours. But God damn it all, we know what is Victory, but not how to win it, we have the Blood, but not the Cunning. And this Emmerich Schäffer, this little scribe, has more Cunning in his little quill-tip than I have in my whole body. When you cut me, I bleed. When you cut little Schäffer, his wounds run ink and molten gold.
“So, what have you in the Sternkammer done so far? To prepare?” he asks.
“The three main roads into Hagenburg, they all run through our lands, Schäffer. So our men watch the roads, keep an eye on things.”
“An eye on things?”
“To make sure the Bishop’s vassal knights aren’t gathering in the City. If they gathered in force anywhere near Hagenburg, we’d know. That’s what we’re most concerned about, the Bishop’s knights taking the City and defending it from within. So, we watch the roads, Schäffer, and we have three score swordsmen here within the Walls.”
My Counsel raises his scrawny eyebrow. “I wouldn’t presume to advise My Lord on matters Military.”
“Don’t even try, Schäffer. You’re a Lenzenbach sheep boy. Your hood may be trimmed with sable, but I know where you’re from.”
A slight smile from my Counsel. It curls at the edges of his lips. A bit insolently. He asks: “Tell me this. The Bishop has the Pope’s money to spend on gaining support for Raspe. Whose support has he bought? I mean, who has actually changed sides?”
“Von Sangenheim for one! And the families up by Mohrmünster, the minor families on the Lothringen marches. Turncoats.”
“They needed the money?”
I shrug. Where’s this leading? “Their estates are small, hilly. They could always do with a hand-out. I heard von Sangenheim’s barn had burned down. Now he’s building a new one.”
“So. This is about Money.”
I knock back the wine. “With you, Schäffer, it’s always about Money.”
He has no shame, this Schäffer. No deference for the Old Ways. He dips his quill in ink, scribbles some figures down in one of his books, and says, as if it were nothing; “Well, Bishop von Stahlem has the march on you, then. He’s bought new friends and allies. His money is buying von Sangenheim a new barn. If it comes to a war, he has all these new allies, plus all his age-old supporters; the clergy, the old noble families whose sons are in the Cathedral Chapter, drawing Church Gold. So, who do you have on your side?”
Schäffer stands, and looks out the window at the passing crowds. “There is a merchant called Manfred Gerber.”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“Three years ago, he led a raid on the bandits by the Albe River.”
“A sorry bunch of ruffians.”
“Maybe. But they’d killed, raped and stolen from our townsfolk, from pilgrims, travellers. For instance, they stole a cobbler’s consignment of leather. He went bankrupt and his children were reduced to begging. A ‘small’ thing, maybe, My Lord. But People remember these stories.”
“Yes. And?”
“Gerber and his associates are building a Merchants’ Church on Brandplatz. Last month they needed help carrying the new stone, from the quarry barge here at the Wharf, all the way to the Square. He called out for help, using the Town Criers.” Schäffer goes to fetch the wine pitcher from the sideboard. He turns to look at me. “Four hundred people came on a Saturday morning, at dawn, to help carry his stone. Unpaid.”
His grey eyes stare at me, unblinking. “My Lord, Manfred Gerber could walk out of these offices here, hold up his arms and call out, and with a click of the fingers, he’d have a dozen hands to help him.”
He walks over, across the polished wooden floor. Pours me a generous stoup of wine. “How many could you manage, My Lord?”
“I’m not stupid, Schäffer.”
“No, My Lord.”
“You want me to go after the Bandits.”
“I want you to sell your lands in the Aargau. And, yes, use some of the money to raise a troop to defeat the bandits. For the Bishop is doing nothing about them. Defeat them, hang their mysterious leader in the Cathedral Square, and the City will be yours.”
I slam my gloved fist down on the table. “Schäffer! Do you think I am some kind of Ratcatcher? I meet my peers in the Field of Honour. I don’t scuttle around marshes chasing vermin.”
He gives me one of his looks. Those blank, slate-grey eyes. A stare like a cat’s. Unnerving. “I thought you might say something like that, my Lord.”
He creeps back to his desk, takes up his quill once more. “What a pity.”
† † †
Evening, in the Great Hall of Schwanenstein. Elise waits on the Countess. I drink, stuff myself with devilled roast pigeon, smoked eel and purée of swede. Schwanenstein Castle is like a Pilgrim’s Inn on the road to Cologne, full to the rafters. Musicians, minstrels, jongleurs, poets . . . And the Countess sends round to all the villages from Illingen to the Black Forest, offering work and silver to the prettiest girls . . .
What a pigsty. What a whorehouse. What a change from my cold, devout Castle Kronthal. My brother-in-law, Rutger von Moder, keeps on honeying me to make love to his sister and produce an heir for our combined estates. But it’s like clambering onto a toad in winter. I try and explain this to him as delicately as possible. “We’re doing our best,” I tell him, and he claps my shoulder, man to man, to hide his disappointment.