by Ben Hopkins
Yudl, standing in the Judengasse, only a few paces from Home, wipes his hands over his tired eyes. The traffic in the lane has stopped, faces turn to the sky, towards the Cathedral’s distant dome, as if expecting to read in the heavens the meaning of the bell.
The bell tolls again.
“Close up your shops,” says Yudl quietly to the shopkeepers who have gathered around him. “Tell our folk to stay at home. No open displays of . . . laughter. Joy.”
Behind him, as he leaves, the Jews slip silently into their shuttered homes. Beyond the Judengasse the gathering, murmuring crowds begin, summoned by the bell. Yudl doesn’t have to go far. At the corner of the Schriwerstublgass, Johannes, the parchment and ink merchant, stands with his black-stained hands folded over his apron. “Herr Rosheimer, heard the news?”—“Not yet.”—“The Bishop has passed over.”
For some moments they stand together, watching the tawny tide of humanity making its way towards the Cathedral Square. Yudl shrugs, wearily. “I wonder what will happen now.”
By the time he has returned to the Jewish Quarter, all is shrouded in twilight and silence. The Judengasse is empty, not a soul stirs. Behind the shuttered windows, no sign of life, as if the houses themselves were shrouded in mourning.
Yudl stands, his hand leaning against his house’s front door, hesitating. All day, he had looked forward to this moment, his homecoming, when his children cry out with joy.
Maybe today I will teach my son of lampblack, he thinks. The making of ink. He turns, and leans his back against the cool oak of the front door. His fingers reach into the fold of his cloak, and pull out the posy of snowdrops and aconites.
Hurrying along the empty lane towards him, out of breath and wheezing, Yudl’s stocky Christian assistant Elbertus. As he approaches, he waves. His face bears an expression of earnest importance. “You have heard?”—“I have heard. You’re a bit late, Elbertus.”—“The Square was so crowded, I could hardly move.”—“And what is the atmosphere?”—“Tense, Herr Rosheimer. But the Town Watch are there in force.”—“Then go back, and keep an eye open for us. On days like these it only takes a few people to start blaming the Jews . . . ”
Elbertus nods gravely, taking the responsibility onto his broad butcher’s shoulders. “Good evening, Herr Rosheimer.”—“Good evening.”
Elbertus’ bulky form retreats through the dusk and gloom, disappearing into darkness at the distant corner of the Schriwerstublgass. Stormy winds blow, sending the Judengasse’s shop signs swaying. Yudl turns to face his doorway, and knocks thrice, twice; the signal of his return. In his right hand, the posy of snowdrops for his wife, an offering for the temple of their prosperous, peaceful home.
POLYPHONY
(ANNO 1260. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VIII)
Once I had Eyes and could see. Once I was a respected member of the Chapter of the Cathedral, and could count on my allies and colleagues. I lived in Avenheim Monastery, and dwelt in silence and meditation.
And now, one by one, all of this has changed.
I have Scars where my eyes should be. I am the only Canon of the Chapter who stood against the election of Bishop Walther von Kolzeck, and I am shunned. I have left Avenheim, and live in the City, in the clamour and chaos near the Vogesen Gate.
I am surprised to find myself quite content.
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In the mornings I rise, and after my prayers and ablutions, feel my way to the chair by the window. I unfasten the shutters and sit by the opening, letting the sounds of the street drift up to my listening ears. At this hour the Vogesen Gate has recently been opened, and pouring down Vogesen Street a legion of country folk making their way to the markets of the City. Some have handcarts that trundle clattering over the cobblestones, some are laden with baskets tied to their backs and groan and puff their way up the incline towards the Cathedral Square. Some call out their wares as they walk, hoping for a sale on the road to lighten their burden. And amongst the chorus of voices, I have begun to recognise individual characters in this numerous dramatis personae, the heroes and heroines of this lively Shadow Play that unfolds itself beneath my window.
After the clamorous influx of peasants, the music of the street ebbs somewhat, finding its diurnal pattern. The same hawkers pass at practised intervals, calling their wares in sing-song cadences, the same beggars perch in the same shady corners, repeating their worn phrases ad infinitum, “for the Love of God, a penny, Sir,” “Charity, madam, for these hungry mouths.” A Leper passes twice before the midday bell, his clapper rattling to warn of his passing. The shopkeepers, when there is no custom, gather at the sides of the street, gossiping like fishwives.
There was a time when I would have found this repetitious parade of sounds a torture, but now I find in it something compelling: the roundelay and song of this city, unstinting centre of my existence since my birth some sixty summers ago.
And indeed, I was born here in this very house; the City Residence of the von Zaberns; two fine storeys of Kronthaler sandstone, a square of buildings surrounding a courtyard, a stable and a small vegetable garden. Here I spent my childhood playing beneath the linden tree, studying in the library, eating in the dining hall of the western wing, sleeping and dreaming in this very room.
Now I have returned, in darkness. And am surprised to find the darkness so full, so full of music and voices, the polyphony of Life.
† † †
One week after the burial of Bishop Heinrich von Stahlem, Hieronymus stands at the door to my old Monastery cell, and announces the arrival of Canon Walther von Kolzeck, leading candidate to be the new Bishop of Hagenburg.
“Let him in.”
The sound of footsteps, jingling; spurs. The soft crepitations of chain mail links folding together as he, ignoring all Etiquette, sits uninvited on the stool opposite my chair. His scabbard scraping on the floor. Armed, armoured. A warrior.
I wish I could see his expression as I raise my scarred face in his direction. “My Lord von Kolzeck, let’s not stand on ceremony. Please sit.”
After a pause that I can only describe as “mildly embarrassed,” he says, “Forgive me, My Lord, I am already sitting.”
It takes me substantial effort not to smile.
He clears his throat. “I know that you don’t like me.”
“I do not know you, My Lord. When last I saw you, you were a young tyke, running round your father’s heels.”
“You did not accept the gift I sent you.”
“I am blind. I have no use for silver plates.”
“Nevertheless I wish to canvass your support in my election.”
“Then tell me why I should give you my support.”
“My Lord, even the Canons of the other . . . more Staufisch families have pledged their hand to me. Even they realise that our time is misaligned. That there must be a rebalancing.”
“And I too recognise this to be the case. You are wrong to be concerned whether I like you or not. For instance, I rather liked Bishop Heinrich von Stahlem. But his inept rule of this Diocese has been a disaster.”
“There we agree.”
“And what do you see as the cure?”
“Well, it’s obvious. The powers once invested in the Bishop must be wrested back from the Council and the Ministerial Authorities and returned to the Bishop’s Court. The control of benefices, tithes, taxes must be put back under episcopal authority. The Bishop must appoint, as he did of old, all members of the Council and Ministerial positions.”
“I see. A return to the Good Old Days.”
The young Walther von Kolzeck swallows his irritation. I can hear him shifting on the hard, uncomfortable stool I keep in my cell for my more vexatious guests. “You must agree that the worldly power of Hagenburg should be reorganised?”
“Indeed,” I concede, leaning forward. “But I see some things different
ly, My Lord. Why do you have so much support? Let me tell you why.”
“I am listening.”
“Pope Innocent was so obsessed with breaking the power of the Staufen in Alsace that he showered this Diocese with gold. And Bishop von Stahlem used that gold to buy anti-Staufen allies, enrichening and furthering the smaller families and the country lords of the Marches. But, now that Pope Innocent is dead and the Staufen war has moved to Southern Italy, that flow of gold has stopped.”
Von Kolzeck sits still now, his breathing deep and slow. He is listening.
“And so these new young Lords. Your most vocal supporters. They are looking for a new source of income. And now we have You. Walther von Kolzeck, with your family the owners of Prinzbach, the biggest silver mine in the whole Rhineland. And you say you will break the power of the city ministers, reorganise the wealth and benefices of the Diocese. In short, you will break up the present order and make out of what is left a nice, new, big trough. And they want their noses in it.”
The stool scrapes against the flagstones as the young lord abruptly stands. “Maybe it is because you are blind, My Lord. But you don’t see what’s happening beneath your own nose.”
“And what is that?”
“The City of Hagenburg growing into a cesspit. A Sodom, a Gomorrah. It is lawless, filthy, out of control. The Councillors, left by von Stahlem to their own devices, pass their own laws, raise their own taxes, build their own houses on the Bishop’s land! The People have grown Godless, they despise the clergy and nobility. They spit at Priests and Nobles on the open street!”
I raise my right hand in the darkness, a rhetorical gesture, requesting careful audience. “Yes, the City has grown beyond all imagining, and is out of control. But if you think that this great, crowded city can now be administered by a small episcopal court as in the times of my Master Bishop Berthold, you are greatly mistaken.”
My hands reach out towards him. “Time for reorganisation of the disarray left by His Grace von Stahlem, yes. But this must be slow, gentle, diplomatic work carried out in tandem with the ministerial powers.” My hands clasp together. “And one thing is certain, My Lord von Kolzeck, of this kind of gentle, detailed, careful work you are not capable. You will not have my support.”
† † †
With these words, spoken in the bleak, lenten, late Winter, I sealed my ostracisation from the rest of the Chapter. One by one even the older, more circumspect Canons pledged their hands to von Kolzeck and—lest we forget—to the flourishing fortunes of his Prinzbach silver mines. After his hasty election, some of them visited me in my cell in private to mutter disingenuous excuses for their behaviour, admitting that “it was maybe a risk” to have elected such a young and untested firebrand, but that “the times call for strong leadership,” and other such simple-minded homilies. Sycophantic, greedy, and alarmed by the almost palpable hatred directed at the clergy from the mutinous streets, they pulled their cowls over their heads and hoped that strong medicine would cure the rot at the heart of Hagenburg.
Now it is three months since I left Avenheim Monastery. Von Kolzeck, God bless his youthful, gormless heart, has—so far—been able to achieve nothing. In his impetuous, self-regarding arrogance, he forgot the basic stepping stones he needed to tread before he could achieve his wished-for Glory.
Firstly, the rather important detail: he is not an ordained priest. And so he cannot be enthroned as Bishop until he has taken orders. And a Bishop may only be ordained by an Archbishop.
This little obstacle he had dismissed as easy to surmount whilst canvassing support, waving a letter from the Archbishop of Mayenz, a friend of his father’s, in which the Archbishop declared himself ready to ordain von Kolzeck at his convenience. But—and my poor little heart breaks to recount it—as soon as von Kolzeck was elected, the Archbishop was summoned to Viterbo to conference with the Pope, and so is now somewhere in Italy until further notice. And so von Kolzeck must wait until the conclave has finished and the German Archbishops ride north from Italy . . . or he must himself run off over the Alps to find them, and pray to God he somehow doesn’t miss them on the way.
These little details. So easy to overlook, when one’s eyes are fixed on a glorious horizon.
And, I am perversely happy to say, Worse has just come.
It appears that Von Kolzeck’s young comrade in arms, the Count von Lichtenberg, has got himself into some serious trouble. It seems that the Count had heard—wrongly, as it turns out—that Hagenburg’s ancient adversary, the Bishop of Metz, was also away in Viterbo at the Papal Conference. He decided to use this opportunity to display his Alsatian mettle and invade the Lorraine, annexing some of Metz’ territory for the glory of Hagenburg and, naturally, for the House of Lichtenberg itself.
And now von Kolzeck has a little War on his hands.
The news has just arrived from the borderlands that the Bishop of Metz has counterattacked, and the polyphony outside my window is aquiver with rumour and noise. And I sit here and listen, with the morning sun on my face, and have to smile at the folly that appoints warriors to do the work of wise men.
THE CHRONICLE OF WALTHER VON KOLZECK: PART I
(ANNO 1260. WALTHER VON KOLZECK I)
In the history of the noble families of the Alsace, no Rise is more precipitous, and no Fall so calamitous, as that of Walther von Kolzeck, the 62nd Bishop of Hagenburg. Some noble families rise to greatness through a series of advantageous marriages, some through warlike deeds and the forceful annexation of lands, and some through simple good fortune. It was the fate of the von Kolzeck family to belong to the latter category.
The ascendency of the von Kolzeck family began with the discovery of silver ore in the sands of the Prinzbach river. Before this discovery, Werner von Kolzeck, Walther’s father, had been a minor landowner notable only for his unyielding loyalty to the Bishops of Hagenburg. Whenever a war party was raised by the Bishop, whenever the Bishop’s vassals and allies needed to show a display of force, Werner von Kolzeck was always first to volunteer. This he did with a zeal that only thinly disguised his true ardour; the wish for favour and advancement.
No sooner than silver had been discovered on his lands, Lord Kolzeck sent, at some substantial cost, for mining experts from the Harz Mountains to come and prospect the Prinzbach valley. His investment proved a canny one, and the Harz metallurgists discovered clear evidence of silver deposits in the Prinzbach hills.
Lord Kolzeck was not laggardly in his exploitation of this good fortune. Borrowing from the wealthy Hagenburg Jew Meir Rosheimer against the future profits of the mine, he hired miners and began to prospect and excavate, finding ever more evidence of rich mineral wealth. His joy was complete when, in recognition of his unbending loyalty and in expectation of von Kolzeck’s coming prosperity, Bishop Berthold von Diez, shortly before his demise, offered a Canonry to the von Kolzeck family. This place on the Chapter of the great Cathedral of Hagenburg, along with its golden benefices, Lord Kolzeck bequeathed on his younger son, Walther, then a promising and precocious boy of seven summers.
By the time that Walther, at the age of thirteen, was sent to the von Lichtenberg family in Buchsweiler to continue his knightly education, an abundant seam of silver had indeed been struck and the hamlet of Prinzbach had transformed into a fortified town on the edge of the Black Forest. With this discovery of a deep and wide seam of silver, the House of Kolzeck had become, in prospect, one of the richest in the Upper Rhineland, their wealth matched only by the von Habsburgs and the combined estates of the von Kronthals and von Moders.
The young Walther was never left incognizant of the growing importance of his House and of the Great Roles he and his brother were expected to play in the power games of the Alsace. His Father was not coy in expressing his unbridled hopes for his sons, his ambitions not even shying at the prospect that Walther might one day become Bishop, and his elder brother Herrmann Holy Roman Emperor!
> In Castle Lichtenberg at Buchsweiler, near Zabern, Walther’s knightly and spiritual education continued. In matters military, he was instructed by the elderly Count of Lichtenberg himself, in matters ecclesiastical, by an austere Dominican, Johannes von Emsen.
Father Emsen was a man of strong, and sometimes controversial, opinion. He contended, for example, that the Dominicans’ first intervention in the spiritual life of the Rhineland, the Inquisition of anno 1232, had not been prosecuted vigorously enough. He believed that heretical, insurrectionary ideas remained within the corpus of the Upper Rhine, and that secret heresiarchs were active in the shadows, fomenting the people towards unrest. He saw around him, in the conditions of the present day, a sinful unravelling of the time-honoured organisation of society; peasants leaving their fields for the iniquitous life of the cities, children disobeying their parents in the questions of marriage and choice of livelihood, open, shameless disregard for the authority of Elders and Priests, and a tendency in intellectual circles to divagate from the sanctioned precepts of the Church Fathers.
Under the stern tutelage of Johannes von Emsen, Walther learned to look upon the world as essentially Fallen, a cracked and sinful vessel, broken since Eve’s original sin, and only redeemable by the valiant heroism of true Warriors of the Church. Walther swore fervently to his fearsome teacher that he would strive to right the wrongs of the world.
Thus Walther grew into manhood under the influence of two, at least partially, contradictory visions. His Father, who wished for him nothing more than he should become Bishop of Hagenburg. And Johannes von Emsen, who, in his sermons and homilies, likened Hagenburg to Nineveh, Sodom, and Gomorrah. And so it became Walther’s destiny to be elected to Lord over a city that he had learned to regard as a pit of evil. He was to become Suzerain over a nest of vipers.
† † †