by Ben Hopkins
Walther von Kolzeck was elected to the Bishop’s Throne in anno 1260, at the age of twenty-three. His election had been won on two prime bases; his Father’s apportioning of substantial gifts to the Canons of the Great Chapter, and Walther’s promise to cow and contain the upstart power of the ministerial families. These latter had exploited the chaos of the previous Bishop’s, Heinrich von Stahlem’s, reign, to their own benefit. Under von Stahlem, the city of Hagenburg had grown substantially in population and in the wealth of its trade, at such a rate that the episcopal administration had struggled to contain it. The Ministers, correctly sensing that their Lord von Stahlem had no taste for municipal matters and the day-to-day running of the affairs of the city, had taken up the administrative burden onto their own shoulders. In doing so, they had also not forgotten to feather their own nests, endowing themselves and their family members with various posts and functions amply remunerated from the public purse.
The ministeriales, and their more lowly colleagues the Merchants, whose tax coin kept the ministerial class in clover, had grown rich together, and they, despite their vulgar birth, clothed themselves and disported themselves in the manner of the nobility. They rode on palfreys and coursers, wore coloured silks, bore arms as if they were Knights, formed their own drinking societies which met in the closed rooms of the more genteel taverns, and showed open disregard for the authority of the Church, the Bishop’s Law Courts and the hierarchy of noble birth. If Hagenburg had become a sink of vice and a sprawling labyrinth of iniquity, then—it was so contended in the Chapter House of the Cathedral—it was the Ministerials to blame.
According to the old statutes of the City, it lay within the Bishop’s right to appoint his own ministers, judges and town council—a right which had been eroded in the chaos of the times. It was this right that Walther had sworn to uphold. It was his fervently avowed intention to disinvest the current ministers of their powers and, from tabula rasa, to start afresh.
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However, shortly after his election to the cathedra, Walther von Kolzeck was to experience two major reversals of fortune, one ecclesiastical in nature, one military. Both calamities were, viewed dispassionately, out of his direct sphere of control, but the sensation of misadventure engendered by these twin catastrophes would come to blight all his successive attempts at redress: from the beginning of his Episcopal Reign, Walther von Kolzeck was seen as a man of ill fortune.
Firstly and briefly to deal with the ecclesiastical misadventure. Pope Alexander IV, increasingly alarmed at the incursions of the Mongols into the Eastern borders of Christian Europe and concerned by the Orthodox Nicean Greeks’ encircling of Latin Constantinople, had convocated an emergency meeting of the leaders of the Church, to which all German Archbishops were summoned. The absence of any Archbishop in the surrounding lands had unfortunate consequence for Walther von Kolzeck, in that there was no Archbishop on hand to ordain him as Bishop. And so, for many long months at the beginning of his reign, he remained a mere “Bishop elect,” lacking in religious power and authority.
And his power as the temporal leader of the Upper Rhine was sorely tested by his first attempt at a military excursion. This was necessitated by the impetuous actions of the Count von Lichtenberg the younger (the elder Count, Walther’s military tutor, having recently died). Emboldened by his childhood friend’s ascension of the Hagenburg episcopal throne, the young Count had invaded territory adjacent to the Lichtenberg estate; territory belonging to the Bishop of Metz. Metz had vigorously counter-attacked and reconquered his domain, and, finding little resistance, had continued to annexe a large parcel of the Lichtenberg lands in retribution.
Bishop elect Walther von Kolzeck was compelled to defend the territorial integrity of his Diocese, and immediately sent word that all loyal lords and liegemen were to gather in the Cathedral Square of Hagenburg on the following morning to ride out to war against Metz and the men of Lorraine.
Unfortunately for Walther von Kolzeck and his mission, over the preceding years, the bitter sentiment felt by a large section of the Hagenburg population towards the hegemony of the Bishop had developed into a form of organised resistance. The people of the city had learned to arm themselves, to form their own militia, such as the army that had defeated the wicked Count of Schwanenstein, himself a Canon of the Great Chapter of the Cathedral. And support had gathered around the charismatic figurehead of Baron Volmar von Kronthal, the leader of the city’s Schwanenstein campaign.
History does not record the names of the authors of the conspiracy that now defeated Walther von Kolzeck in his wish to ride to the Count of Lichtenberg’s aid, but suspicion must surely fall upon the scions of the leading ministerial families, such as Niklaus Zorn and Michael Müllenheim, municipal potentates who had made clear their opposition to the new, young Bishop. Maybe Baron von Kronthal was also personally involved in the shameful events of that day, but no record of his participation has been bequeathed to posterity.
What is a matter of record is as follows. As the Bishop elect and his loyal liegemen gathered in the Cathedral Square with the intention of marching out by the striking of the Terce bell, groups of unruly, rebellious townsfolk, in the main drawn from the lower strata of society, formed in the sidestreets and narrow lanes that surround the square. From these boltholes and rat-warrens they periodically emerged to shout foul abuse and to hurl stones and refuse at the gathered Knights of Alsace.
Disorder broke out in the episcopal ranks as individual knights, feeling their Honour impugned by the vulgar mob, chased the ill-doers into the city labyrinth, intending to punish those guilty of defamation and insult. In this they failed, the narrow lanes and uneven cobbles proving an impossible field of combat for knightly warfare, and because the unruly rabble never stood ground to fight, but rather fled deeper into the warren of streets, enticing the knights—or so the warriors feared—into possible ambush.
It was well after midday that the Bishop elect managed to regain control of his assembled knights, and march them to the Mayenz Gate. All the way along the Mayenzer Allee, the shameful deprecations of the mob continued, but at the Gate itself, even greater dishonour awaited.
The Gate was locked. In outrage and disbelief, Walther von Kolzeck summoned the Gatekeeper, who knelt trembling before him, and wept when he confessed that “men” (he could not identify the culprits) had come, beaten him, locked the gates and stolen away with the keys. News now reached the desperate Bishop elect that all four gates of the city had been locked in the same disgraceful manner. He was trapped within his own city walls.
Maybe at this juncture, the young Lord might have decided to build battering rams and break down the gates from within, but this would have taken much time, and would have necessitated the co-operation of the City’s craftsmen. And at this crucial moment when sensible deliberation and quiet counsel may have yet won the day, Walther von Kolzeck and his men became surrounded by a jeering, screeching mob of “citizens,” whose cacophony alarmed the mounted company’s horses.
His options limited, and the situation becoming increasingly perilous, Walther von Kolzeck, doubtless with ashamed and heavy heart, ordered the disbandment of his company, and returned, under the armed guard of some of his most loyal men, to the safety of the Bishop’s Palace.
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Here he found little respite from his woes. His father, Werner von Kolzeck, enraged at the damage caused to their House’s reputation by this aborted excursion and cowed retreat, forgetting that his son was now, by virtue of his election, his Lord and superior, berated Walther in front of his liegemen with such bile that he had to be removed forcibly from the audience chamber. After this distemperate storm had cleared, visibly agitated, Walther sat down with his advisers to write letters to their allies in the countryside, begging them to march to Hagenburg and to their aid. Couriers were found and disguised as peasants and tradesmen so as to be able to smuggle the missives outside the cit
y walls.
An evening mass was celebrated in the Palace Chapel, at which Johannes von Emsen officiated, and where fervent prayers were offered to the Lord in the hope of His swift and just intercession in these parlous worldly affairs. In his sermon Johannes von Emsen made clear his contention that the jeering mob of “citizens” had doubtless been organised, and even paid to play this insurrectionary role, by shadowy masters, namely by the Ministers, the Jews and the Merchant Guilds.
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It was only some days later that the City Gates were opened for the Bishop elect, and then in circumstances that none of his circle could have predicted. Their spies and messengers had brought in a series of reports and missives which, when taken together, had painted a picture of some confusion. Only two matters seemed certain; one most pleasing, the other, most troubling.
Pleasing was the imminent arrival in the Hagenburg plain of a troop of knights and soldiers loyal to the Bishop, led by the Abbot of Murbach. Troubling was the news, made uncertain by rumour and counter-rumour, that Baron Volmar von Kronthal had, without the Bishop elect’s request or permission, liberated the contested Lichtenberg lands, and made peace with Metz. A settlement had apparently been made to return the Alsace-Lorraine border to its time-honoured place.
On the fifth day, an ensign in the livery of the von Kronthal-Moders arrived at the Bishop’s Palace, and conveyed a courteous summons to come to the tilting grounds outside the Vogesen Gate to a parley with “the victor of the Metz-Lichtenberg dispute,” the Baron von Kronthal.
The invitation was accepted, and von Kolzeck and his men rode, doubtless with some apprehension, through the now calm streets of the city to the now open Vogesen Gate.
A short and decisive public dialogue then ensued. Von Kronthal remained on his horse in front of the ranks of his assembled knights, squires and liegemen. On the hillock of the Bishop’s Haldenheim Castle in the middle distance, the Abbot of Murbach and his troops waited, ready to engage in battle if the person of the Bishop elect was threatened. Ranged on the city walls and around the Vogesen Gate, a large crowd of Hagenburg citizens had gathered.
Von Kronthal spoke first. Indicating the army of the Abbot of Murbach on Haldenheim hill, he called out, “Is this a battle that you wish to call?”
Von Kolzeck answered in the negative. It is recorded that he said, “I will not call it! Soon, Baron, it will time for the Vintage. And if we fight, the war will be long, and if our grapes are not picked and trod, then calamity will befall Rich Alsace!”
This answer was pleasing to the assembled citizens, and trumpets sounded in his support.
After noting that this answer was gratifying both to him and to Hagenburg, the Baron von Kronthal, now joined by one of the scheming leaders of the ministerial families, Councillor Niklaus Zorn, posed a further question to the Bishop elect. “And now, will you listen to your City? Will you rein in your hotheaded nobles whose intemperance has brought upon us this war with Metz?”
And by his side, Councillor Zorn demanded to know further: “Will you listen to your Ministers, who require of you a New Order and a Statute Book that reflects the City as it now is in this modern, burgeoning time?”
Walther von Kolzeck’s reply is recorded as follows:
“Baron, Councillor. I am not yet enthroned. I am not yet this country’s Lord. I will retire to my estates. I will consult with Rome. I will consult with my elders. I will hear advice. I will listen to all parties and with God’s Will I will adjudicate well and return to this city and humbly seek to rule under the Eyes of God, just to all men.”
And with these words the colloquy ended and Walther von Kolzeck, attended by his troop of loyal men, rode off to Castle Haldenheim, whence they then departed, under cover of darkness on the evening of the same day, to the safety of the fortified walls of Prinzbach on the far bank of the river Rhine.
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Despite Werner von Kolzeck’s fury that his son had once again retreated in a display of weakness, it was clear to any dispassionate observer that Walther von Kolzeck had nevertheless been canny in showing himself in sympathy to the trade of the City and its all-important Vintage, and in buying himself some time to regroup, take stock and make plans. Most vital of all for the Bishop elect was to effect his ordination, and in full pomp and display of strength, ascend the Bishop’s throne. This would, due to the absence of the German Archbishops, take some time.
Walther von Kolzeck had therefore displayed some acuity and had saved himself from immediate disaster. Nevertheless, he had also seen, at first hand, the vulgar contempt in which he was held by his own citizens, and he, in the system of beliefs he had inherited from Johannes von Emsen, was inclined to see in this a sinful imbalance that must be called to Reckoning. No milder concepts such as compromise or diplomacy made gentle incursion into the rage of his judgement. Ensconced amongst his sycophantic retinue in the comfort of his Prinzbach castle, he made plans and strategies that were bold, fierce, and coloured with wounded pride.
Indeed, the cause of his further misfortunes could no longer be ascribed, as with the misadventures of his delayed ordination and the foolishness of the younger Lichtenberg, to ill-starred fate. The blame for the precipitous downfall that followed can only be laid at Walther von Kolzeck’s own feet.
The twin Vices of Pride and Ambition are like two shining black stallions riding together on the same span. Their uneven tempers cause them to pull apart, sending the Chariot they are so impetuously racing hurtling into the depths.
ANNO
1261
BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE
(ANNO 1261. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL V)
He’d sent his monks ahead of him to lay the groundwork.
Three of them, two magpie Dominicans and a shit-brown Franciscan, marching through the slush on a damp winter’s day up to the forlorn gates of Castle Kronthal. “We pray for audience with the Baron,” they called up through the grille-work.
So I gave them audience, and why not? I’ve got nothing better to do at home these days. I can’t even argue with the Baroness. As soon as she passed child-bearing age her brother had her packed off to Castle Moder, claiming, with a patently fake smile, that he “missed his little sister” and wanted to spend more time with her. The inference was fairly clear: he’s worried that I’ll poison the poisonous, cold bitch, then remarry and father an actual heir. And then that’ll be the last the von Moders see of the lands she came with as dowry.
The last years before her womb ran dry, she would come to my bedchamber and beseech me, whilst fingering her medallion of the Holy Virgin, to give her a tupping. Every time she did so, I could almost see her brother Rutger von Moder prodding her scrawny behind with a stick, whispering from behind the arras, “Make us a bloody heir, you useless sack!”
The pity of it. But now that sickening boudoir comedy is over, and Castle Kronthal is left to me, my dogs and my servants. And—as today—the occasional visiting petitioner, requesting audience.
One of the Dominicans, a Roman, only spoke in Latin. I suppose that was meant to impress me. The other two were from the East of the Black Forest and yodelled Schwäbisch German like goatherds. They sat by my great fire, their damp habits gently steaming, the slush slowly melting from their stinking boots, and told me that their Master, Walther von Kolzeck, wanted Reconciliation. He wanted to restore balance to Hagenburg, establish the reign of Virtue, et cetera. It was true, they said, that the newly ordained von Kolzeck was gathering his loyal liegemen to march with him to Hagenburg for his enthronement, but I shouldn’t be alarmed, et cetera. And they gave me a piece of parchment, heavy with the Bishop’s seal, in the name of God, ensuring my safety and foreswearing any wish for the use of arms.
I gave them some warm wine and venison stew. Let it never be said that I am inhospitable to guests. Then I sent them off to sleep in the village priest’s house in the valley. My hospitality has its limits.
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It’s not that they lied to me. No. Merely they had, the cunning bastards, used flutes for trumpets. The way they talked, it seemed that Bishop Walter would gather up a few score braves, trot into the City, meekly pick up mitre and crozier, quietly coronate himself and then retire to the Bishop’s Palace for a few cups of wine before beginning the gentle work of Peace.
And here he is, marching in through the Vogesen Gate, at the head of a procession whose damned End our men on the walls can’t even see, and the drummers of Schlettstadt are pounding, the trumpeters of Colmar are blaring, the banners of a hundred families are waving, and I and my brethren wait on our steeds by the gate and count the horsemen riding in. We count and count until we lose count. It’s nearly a Thousand.
The Cathedral Square looks like a tilting ground so full it is of horses and squires and fluttering pennants. And inside the Cathedral itself . . . when it’s time to recite the Lord’s Prayer it sounds like a blacksmith’s at the gates of Hell; one thousand knights in plate- and chain-mail clatter to the flagstones on bended knee.
I and my braves from the Sternkammer, we have our place near the front. Our banners hang just behind the standards of the Grand Nobles, the old families who’ve had sons in the Chapter for generations.
But now they’ve put up this bloody Rood Screen, an apron of stone hiding the Choir, even from close to the front of the Nave you can’t see a bloody thing of the service, just hear the echoing words. The Nave is still only two-thirds built, and the vassal knights are crammed in every corner, perched on blocks of half-hewn stone, leaned against scaffolds. The Town People can hardly catch a peek, so full is the place of Armour. Boys and girls squeeze through steel greaves, trying to glimpse the new Bishop. Mistress Gerber and the other Guildmasters are all pushed into the back arcades.