Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  Be steadfast. Reject the offer. And God Willing, we will find some other way of escape from here. Meir tells me the Baron von Kronthal has started his campaign by now. Maybe he can rescue us.

  For they who took us captive required of us a song. But how shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?

  Yitzhak ben Yisrael

  The Rabbi raises his head from the letter. “Woe to those who have talked ill of Yitzhak ben Yisrael,” he says. “Who amongst you could have written such a letter?” He places the letter in Yudl’s hands, and looks up at the quavering light of the lanterns. “And what shall we do? Shall we heed his wise advice? As he himself indicates, the Talmud can be invoked on both sides of the argument.” Rabbi Menahem turns to Yudl. “Bring that One in to us now, Yudl. Let him speak.”

  Yudl rises from his bench and goes to the doorway, where Emmerich Schäffer is pacing up and down in the dusk. Inside, Emmerich sits on a stool just outside the circle as Yudl reads him the letter in a tremulous voice.

  After Yudl has finished, the Rabbi clears his throat. “Tell us, Herr Schäffer. Can we pay such a sum?”

  Emmerich shakes his head. “No.” He looks at the ground. “Yes. If we call in many of our assets, we can. But it will ruin us.” Now he looks up to face the Rabbi. “We should bargain with them.”

  “Bargain?”

  “If anything, it will buy us time.”

  “We will not bargain, Herr Schäffer. It will not be said that the Jews of Hagenburg haggled like fishwives over the price of two souls.”

  

  Yudl pulls at the rope, dragging his father’s coffin across the cemetery ground. It was his dying wish to be buried in penitence, to be dragged forty cubits to his grave.

  Waiting by the open pit, the coffin of Yitzhak’s elder brother Meir. All the Jews of Hagenburg stand amongst the gravestones. The women wail, their hands form claws, pluck at their cheeks. Yudl’s Mother is on her knees, screaming at the Heavens. At discreet distance, the Gentile mourners; Emmerich and his brother, their sister Grete, she herself in a black widow’s veil. The workers of Schäffer and Associates, Uncle Meir’s business colleagues.

  Yudl stumbles to his knees. Rises up again, pulls at the rope. Aberle is there, offering his help, but Yudl has sworn he will do this on his own. He pulls onwards.

  His Father and Uncle’s bodies, cut down from trees by the shore of the Rhine. A note from the pirate Staubmantel saying: come collect your dead, you skinflint Jews.

  The two coffins are lowered into the pit. The wailing becomes shrill, keening over the sound of the nearby monastery bells. Yudl kneels by the grave, raises his head, releases a piercing cry. Above him, the linden tree. A raven launching into the leaden sky.

  Dear Yudl, this will be my last letter to you. My time is short and I must be brief.

  God’s ways are mysterious. He has given me but one son, a jewel and a treasure whose value I never truly realised until now. One thing is clear, Yudl, you have a gift. Whether for trade or for Torah, only time and destiny will tell.

  Whatever you do, do not squander your blessings as I have, in foolishness and in speculation of what might have been. What has been, has been, and cannot be undone. The past is closed. Only the future is open.

  Take care of and provide for your mother. And remember me kindly, and not in bitterness, I beg you.

  I love you. Your Father.

  Yudl takes the spade from the mound of earth. It is he who will throw in the first clods, and clothe his father’s casket in darkness.

  UNVANQUISHED

  (ANNO 1247. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL III)

  The fingers of his sword hand are almost completely crushed. And still he screams, “The Count of Schwanenstein! Count Schwanenstein!”

  “Release the screws, this is getting nowhere.” I sink back onto the bench, lean up against the farmhouse wall. Close my eyes, feel the sunshine as the bandit’s screams subside.

  Some bandit. Younger son of a poor Lothringen noble, sent to the Crusades for ten years and then disinherited and forgotten. He comes back in rags with his flea-ridden squire. Homeless, lordless, he wanders the roads of the German lands, tells tavern tales of dusky dancing girls and the golden walls of Ashkelon, hires out his sword for a shilling a day to whoever will take him. Ends up in a Black Forest gang of thieves and highwaymen. Hearing of the fame of the Watzenau Bandits, he comes to Alsace and joins the pirate band.

  He’s only good for the gallows now.

  All goes quiet as my men wait for my command. We’re in some godforsaken hamlet between Watzenau and Bergzabern. Foresters and swineherds fled inside when we rode in, three score horsemen and two dozen footsoldiers. We threw down our five shackled men. In a farmyard we lit a fire, heated our irons, prepared the screws. Shameful work.

  And now this. This nonsense.

  Peasant piggy eyes peek from the farm’s locked shutters as I lash out at the splayed, twisted bandit. Kick him like a dog. “Count Sebald is my relative, you bastard.” He whimpers like a cur. “Kill me, kill me please. A clean death . . . My sword hand’s gone . . . ”

  I stand. “Take this filth back to Hagenburg, and give them to the Judge. I’ll ride ahead.”

  Jerusalem’s getting old in the tooth, but he’s still a fine steed. The days are long. I’ll be there by sundown.

  † † †

  Schäffer raises an eyebrow. Insolent. “The Count von Schwanenstein?”

  “That’s what the bastard said.”

  Schäffer looks down at the floor a few moments. Takes in a deep, long breath. “Well . . . that’s interesting.”

  “What, you devil?”

  The Girl brings water and wine, some fruit tarts.

  Jerusalem nearly drank the Ehle dry as we pulled into Hagenburg. Now it’s my turn. I down the pitcher of water in one. As Emmerich waits for the Girl to withdraw, he looks at me. One of his long, quiet stares. Like a sheep. A cow. Chewing the cud.

  The Girl curtsies, closes the door behind her.

  Silence. Outside, the sun is setting, the dock is quiet.

  I look at Schäffer. “What? Speak.”

  He raps his desk with his knuckles, stands. “I’ve been wondering about it for years. The Lady Adelheid’s habits, my Lord. Just one banquet must cost ten, eleven marks. And sometimes three, four banquets a week? And the troubadours, the jongleurs, the jewels, the fabrics. The shoes with golden laces. The handmaidens. The tournaments. A mild estimate, My Lord. Sixty marks a week in the summer season.”

  “The Count’s estates cover the whole plain of Illingen. It’s fertile land.”

  “Yes, but I doubt his lands bring him even seven hundred annual. Herr Rosheimer and I assumed that he has been selling assets . . . just as he sold some land and tithes to you.”

  “He did . . . ”

  “But we have heard of no further sales. So we assume he must be borrowing gold from somewhere. A substantial sum, every year. My Lord, we wanted to lend to him! But we could never get ourselves introduced!”

  “You know I tried, Schäffer. He was never interested.”

  “So from whom did he borrow, if not from us? From the Bishop? An old Staufen like Schwanenstein? I think not. From a Florentine bank? Then who was the Factor who did the deal? It’s been a mystery to me, My Lord, for years.”

  “Maybe he . . . ” His words worm their way into my ear, making me pause.

  “ ‘Maybe he,’ My Lord?”

  “Damn you, Schäffer.”

  “Maybe he has another source of income, you were about to say, My Lord?”

  I nod.

  “Well, My Lord. It would seem that he does.”

  † † †

  Elise hasn’t spoken to me since I had our little boy Tybolt taken away. She screamed like a tigress, raved like a heretic, tore at my face with her nails, leaving scratch-mar
ks on my cheeks that smarted for days. But thank the Lord I had the Boy sent off—he’s now safe and sound in the Lorraine, far away from the debacle of Schwanenstein.

  It is noon on a bright summer’s day but Schwanenstein castle gate is closed. From the crenellations above the drawbridge, the Castellan asks me to turn in my sword.

  “Say that again.”

  “Your sword, Baron. It is the custom.”

  “Not with me. Not here. I am Family.”

  “Nevertheless I must ask you to deliver your sword. It is the custom upon entering a Free Man’s dwelling, My Lord.”

  “I KNOW THE CUSTOMS OF THE LAND!”

  “Then you will have no objection.”

  Sebald is waiting for me in the Great Hall. The flagstones crawl with his pack of hounds, his throne-like chair perches before the cold, blackened fireplace. He grins. “Cousin, welcome. Wine?”

  “Can it be true? You are the bloody Bandit King?”

  He says nothing. I look at him. He is pale, his skin is stretched tight on his skull. Always a strange one, Sebald. Like there’s two of him. One man in the morning, another in the afternoon. And today it’s his Shadow Half, staring me down.

  “So you don’t deny it?”

  He says nothing. Again.

  “I’ve been chasing round the damned marshes like a bloodhound. I killed some of your men. Gave others to the bloody Bishop’s sheriff to hang.”

  “Serving your New Masters?”

  “New Masters?”

  “The Jews and the Traders. Aren’t they your New Masters?”

  “It’s called ‘Politics,’ Cousin.”

  “It is?”

  “They’re on our side. The Imperial side. If it comes to a war, we’ll need them.” In the wide, flagstoned hall, my words echo back at me, empty, wretched. “Together we can keep the Bishop in his place.”

  “Is that what they told you? They play a tune and you dance? Are the Jews and Merchants the new Lords of Alsace?”

  “Listen. I swore in front of half the City I would defeat the Bandit King! And then he turns out to be my Cousin’s husband. You should have told me. We could have worked something out.”

  “I have nothing to work out with you, Cousin. You who bought my parcel of land from me like a moneylender on Jew Lane . . . ”

  “You needed the money!”

  “You who tried to peddle me his filthy ‘fiduciary counsel’ to help me with my finances, like some kind of back-alley procuress.”

  “Sebald . . . ”

  “I am a Knight. And you are a Tradesman’s Errand Boy.”

  Silence. My hands clench at my sides. In the shadows, his liegemen sit on benches. Seven swordsmen. “So you can afford to be bold when I am unarmed?” I step forward. Sebald’s liegemen stand. Their scabbards scrape on the flagstones. “You? A Knight? Raping pilgrims, ransoming drapers, robbing women?”

  He shrugs. “The Booty of War. And I have spilled no Noble Blood.” The Count of Schwanenstein waves his hand, searches for a sweetmeat and tosses it to his hounds. A mêlée of growling, writhing fur. “We are at War, Cousin. The real war isn’t the Staufen against the Pope. It is We against Them. Them with their Guilds and their fat Purses, buying up noble land. Upstarts. Mark my words, if we don’t cut off their heads, they will eat us alive.”

  “You are babbling and I will take my leave. I will see Elise and take her with me.”

  Sebald’s hollow eyes hold mine. “Elise is not available.”

  Silence.

  “Where is she?”

  “In the dungeon. You may not see her.”

  My fist clenches. The Count’s voice echoes, resounds. “Of one thing be certain. As and when I like, I will hang Elise and her little baby slut from the Castle Gate. It seems you got your bastard boy out just in time. Where is he?”

  “As if I’d tell you.”

  He’s mad. I see it now. He opens his arms. “We’re here. Come and take us, Errand Boy. This castle has never been conquered. Unvanquished. Try your luck.”

  He sighs. “Now go away.”

  I stand firm. I may be surrounded by seven armed men, but I do not take orders like a valet. “ADELHEID!” I scream, and propel myself towards the keep’s stairway. “COUSIN!” The seven swordsmen reach for their hilts, but at Count Sebald’s gesture, they withhold.

  She is in her chamber, in a pitiful state. Two of her handmaidens lie beside her on the bed, drunk. The room stinks of schnapps.

  “Adelheid, get up. You must help me. Help me see Elise.”

  “Volmar, are you here?” Her eyes are glassy, ringed with red. “Have you come to rescue me?”

  “Rescue you? What from?”

  The Countess drags herself up from the bed, pulls her fur stole closer around her shoulders. It is midsummer, and yet she shivers. “From him,” she whispers, pointing downstairs. “He says no more divertissements. Not even a dancing party.”

  “Adelheid, there are other things to worry about. There will be a battle here, Schwanenstein will be attacked.”

  She laughs. “Don’t you know? It is Unvanquished. Wenzel of Nürnberg wrote an Ode to this castle . . . many men have scaled her proud stone, only to retreat in sickness and dismay. Of course the castle is a metaphor for . . . ME!”

  “A magnificent tribute to your beauty, My Lady . . . ” mutters one of the drunken handmaidens.

  “It is a high honour to have so many odes composed to one, I suppose I have had many dozen . . . ” Adelheid continues, chattering like a skylark in the heavens, oblivious to the world below. “An accolade rarely consigned . . . ”

  “I want to see Elise!” I manage to interject.

  “Oh do not speak of that vile girl!” declaims Adelheid and turns away from me. “Sebald found her stealing my jewels! Her hand wrist-deep in silver! And she tried to escape! He has had her imprisoned. Why he has not had her flogged I do not know!”

  “Adelheid, it is not true. Adelheid . . . !”

  “Either bring me cheerful news, cousin, or leave! I am in mourning!”

  “In Mourning?”

  “For the Death of Joy!”

  Outside Adelheid’s chamber, the seven swordsmen await me, weapons drawn. I launch myself at them with my fists, and they leap upon me with pommels and knees. We wrestle like fools all the way down the Keep’s stairwell.

  Count Schwanenstein’s liegemen throw me out through the Gate, toss my sword after me across the cobbles. Like I’m some kind of drunken lackey being thrown from an Inn.

  † † †

  Arrows like hailstones break upon my carapace. We push on towards the dry moat, the raised drawbridge, the plunging gap, throw our torches, the bales of dried straw. The men cower under the Tortoise Shell; a roof of timber, wicker and hide, now spiked like a porcupine from the torrent of arrows. Young von Zabern’s Squire is hit in the ankle. Someone else in the thigh.

  The torches are good. Two bales have caught, start to smoulder on the ledge by the drawbridge. If they don’t pour dousers, the whole thing might go up.

  “Back! Regroup!” I shout out over the drumming of the blows on the tortoise roof. Three or four wounded is too high a cost for this feint, this test of the Schwanenstein defence.

  Under the Tortoise, we stagger back through the squall of arrows. The storm recedes as we pull further out of range, the sound of the blows replaced by the screams of derision from the crenellations. Schwanenstein’s packs of wolves are howling. “Run away, run away you scum . . . ”

  We look up at the castle, rising on its shoulder of rock above the Rhine, unvanquished. Already the water butts are being winched on the Gatehouse Tower, lifted above the parapet, ready to pour.

  Below, in the moat, on the ledge beneath the gateway, the straw is raging red and orange, retching smoke. If it could burn a short while longer, then the drawbridge would
catch.

  But here comes the rain. The water butts tilt over the gatehouse wall; a cascade of water. My crossbowmen fire a volley at the water-winchers. Their quarrels clatter against the fortress stones. Miss.

  A billow of grey, wet smoke, and it’s over.

  † † †

  Late summer. Early Autumn. All Saints’. Every day we harry them. Approach the walls in our tower, under our tortoise shell, under the shelter of shields. Shoot crossbows, arrows, throw burning bales, and, when the wind is right, burn pitch and let black smoke billow into their crenellations. Shout insults at them. Tell them the news about their wives. How Frau Metzgin, wife of Staubmantel’s right hand man, now sucks pizzle in the Rheintor Bath House, one penny a suck.

  Out of the range of their arrows, we put on shows. We light fires, grill freshly-slaughtered venison, drink luxurious horns of Rhenish wine, dance and sing. Joust, just to show we have the room to ride our horses. Hunt on the Schwanenstein hunting lands, and parade the rich spoils; hares, does, boars, a fine chestnut hart. Emmerich’s men wave sacks of coin, offering a fine price to He Who Will Open the Gate. We seduce them with riches. We mock them with Freedom.

  But they do not give.

  Every day their archers are in position, ready to fire as soon as any of us stray within range. Every day their men are ready with water, with fire, to repel our advances. Every night their guardsmen patrol the walls.

  And twice they have even caught us complacent, dozing in our tents, supping on soup. The drawbridge dropped down, and a swift strike of a dozen cavalry, riding amongst us, swords slashing. Seven dead. And then back inside the gate before we could mount a counter-attack.

  Shameful. We will not be caught like that again.

  And yet the days draw on, and no crack is seen, no breaking down. Schwanenstein stands, proud and hawk-like on its outcrop of unvanquished stone.

  EX TENEBRIS

  (ANNO 1247. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VII)