Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  “An annulment?” is all I can manage to exclaim as a rejoinder, needing time to marshal my thoughts. After brief deliberation, I consider that an equally rapacious counter-thrust is the only response. “I hear you will be taking ownership of Prinzbach as the spoils of victory of Wolfsbergen. I want a share in the incomes of the mines for the Diocese.”

  “If you can secure the annulment, you can have the share in the mine.”

  “Twenty per centum.”

  “Done.”

  God damn my Haste. I could have asked for more.

  † † †

  On an open, even road I could, in theory, ride a docile steed—a Mule, for instance, at a walk, guided on the halter by a servant. But even then there is the fear that the animal, startled by a sudden noise, or stung by a wasp, might bolt and take me with it, plunging into the uncharted darkness, and bucking me to crack my head on branch or stone.

  And so I am condemned to walk, guided by Hieronymus’ gentle hands, or ride in the back of carts alongside the sacks of pomegranates gathered from the autumn orchards. And so we make slow progress as we climb the Latium hills.

  Yet, as we come within a few leagues of Orvieto, the road thrums with voices, busy with trade. The Pope’s soldiers guard the approaches to the papal city, and provisioners and merchants throng the lanes, herding livestock, carting wine and cheese. And for the more genteel class of travellers, palanquins and bearers are offered for hire.

  Hieronymus guides me into the palanquin’s cushioned interior. It is small and I must bend my long legs to fit inside, but as soon as I am seated, I am heaved aloft and the bearers set off in synchronised stride. I swing gently, in perfumed cushions, and a sweet breeze tickles through the curtains. Like a babe in a cradle, swaddled and rocked, I fall into a blissful sleep. And only awake, some hours later, when we are outside Orvieto’s city walls.

  † † †

  That he wants to disinherit his cold, devout wife and her fractious, devious brother Rutger von Moder, that he wants to set the shield and colours of von Kronthal as a leading force in the Empire, I can well understand. And that I want a rich, powerful ally, whose Strength stands counter to the rapaciously growing fortunes of the House of Habsburg, is self-evident to anyone who understands the politics of the Upper Rhine. Better two warlords in competition, friendly or otherwise, than one all-powerful Monolith.

  The Baron von Kronthal’s lawyer, the scheming, well-moneyed wretch named Magistrate Vergersheim, attests that the Baron married Tybolt’s chambermaid mother in a secret ceremony in Castle Schwanenstein. And that the Baron’s marriage with the Countess von Moder was never valid, because it was officiated by the Abbot of Mohrmünster, who was later burned as a heretic.

  These lies and half-truths, sealed in an affidavit, and honeyed with a hefty gift of two hundred marks from the Baron’s treasury, I bear in secret with me to the Holy Father. In secret, for if the Baroness’ family, the proud von Moders, should hear of it, then they will use every weapon in their arsenal to protect their interests. They will need to be sweetened with gifts, calmed with compromise. They will keep the rump of the von Moder lands, but lose all gains contracted with the Baroness’ marriage. I shall have to compensate them richly with some positions of grace and favour in the Diocese.

  An awkward and challenging affair, and yet it is a matter of tradition, so I hear, for the Pope to grant one boon to a new Bishop. And here is one that will fill his coffers, help fill mine, and will bind the fractious strength of von Kronthal into beholden, thankful loyalty to the Holy See.

  I am confident of success.

  † † †

  When last I was at the Papal Court, I was a mere Canon and Treasurer, now I am a Bishop. Nevertheless to be here is a lesson in Humility and Patience.

  In Hagenburg, I am Suzerain and Overlord. Here, I am merely one of many Bishops vying for the attention of the Holy Father. And it is slowly becoming clear that to achieve all that I wish will take several weeks.

  And yet it is not unpleasant to be here. As a visiting Bishop I am accorded great courtesy, and am invited to banquets, Holy Masses and discussions of doctrine. I am a guest in the city’s palazzi, I am introduced to great Noblemen, the leading bankers of Florence and Venice, once even to the magnificent scholar Thomas of Aquino, whose writings Hieronymus and I have very much admired.

  To begin with, I begged of Hieronmyus descriptions of the palaces and courts in which these many colloquia took place. “A hall flagged in white stone,” he would whisper in hushed tones of awe. “Walls of striped black and white marble, with . . . circular columns . . . topped with capitals carved with oak leaves . . . ” And so he droned on.

  After a while, I decided it best to leave the new world of Orvieto to my imagination. After all, I rarely think in Images any more. It is hard to describe, but the World for me has become a fluid current of aural and abstract sensations. I remember, only distantly, the appearance of things, and rather think in terms of space, distance, and the music of voices and sound.

  And Orvieto is full of voices. A constant flood of discussion and negotiation. In the areas where the Papal Court holds sway the common tongue is of course Latin, but in the side streets and the makeshift encampments outside the town walls one can hear conversations, salutations and imprecations in all the languages of Christendom. All the world is here, gathered around the centripetal hub of the great wheel of Fortune.

  And so it is with some Curiosity that I hear, retired from the wearying hubbub in the quiet of my bedchamber, the sound of Hieronymus conversing with a stranger in the familiar cadence of the Alsatian dialect.

  “Who is there, Hieronymus?”

  “A . . . merchant of some kind, Your Grace. He claims to know you.”

  “From Hagenburg?”

  “From Hagenburg.”

  “Send him in.”

  I sit up on my divan, and await the mysterious visitor. His footsteps approach, he bends to kiss my ring, and then he says, to my mild astonishment, “Your Grace, I am Emmerich Schäffer. I hope you remember me?”

  I do indeed remember him. But I had assumed, like most of Hagenburg society, that he were Dead.

  “My Word. This is a surprise. Please sit, Herr Schäffer. And tell me how you come to be here.”

  “That, Your Grace, would take some time.”

  “Then tell me, Schäffer. But please, with some concision.”

  This he then attempts to do, and fails, but I cannot entirely blame him. It seems the poor man has travelled all over this wide earth, finding nothing but increasing misfortune. After his disgraceful abscondment from Hagenburg and many misadventures on the high seas, he had eventually set up a relatively successful business as a middleman in Constantinople, introducing Buyers to Sellers, “like a pimp,” as he puts it. But the conquest of Constantinople by the Greeks forced him once more to flee, and since then he has been wandering the Mediterranean and Adriatic coasts in search of new mercantile ventures. And now he has joined forces with a Moorish investor to try and sell a new innovation to the Papal Court.

  “And what is this new . . . thing called?”

  “It is called ‘paper,’ Your Grace. Here.”

  And he places in my hands a . . . sheet, like a sheet of parchment, but lighter, much lighter. Its surface is smooth like silk, but press harder as one traces one’s fingers over it and one can sense faint contours, tiny bumps, furrows.

  “What colour is it?”

  “White,” says Emmerich Schäffer.

  “Greyish,” corrects Hieronymus.

  “Does one use it like parchment?”

  “Yes. But it is more flexible, more absorbent, and much cheaper to produce. From old rags. Think of all the parchment in daily use in the papal court! With the use of paper, think how much time and money could be saved!”

  I have to smile. “Then you are in the wrong place, Herr Sch�
�ffer. The Papal Court has many concerns. But saving money and time are, I believe, not high on its list of priorities.”

  † † †

  I am right in my assessment of the workings of the Court: its work is done in opulent languor. After several weeks’ wait, we receive gratifying news from the Papal Secretary that the Baron von Kronthal’s annulment will be granted. The Pope’s official decree in this matter, bearing his seal, will be conferred to me along with my pallium by the Holy Father himself after a Holy Mass, “at the next available opportunity.”

  And so we wait.

  As we wait, we spend increasing amounts of time with Emmerich Schäffer. It is quite clear to me that the man is an amoral opportunist and a scheming scoundrel, but at the same time I cannot deny his brilliance and cunning. And he proves very useful to us as a Spy, mixing as he does amongst the lower echelons of the various entourages, an environment rife with Gossip and Rumour.

  “Your Policy of favouring von Kronthal meets with approval,” he tells me, sipping Umbrian wine, for which he has an immoderate penchant and which makes him unduly garrulous. “Earlier papal policy furthered the fortunes of the Kyburg-Habsburgs in the region, as a bulwark against the Staufen. Rudolf von Habsburg was quick to make the most of the situation, as you know, but is now seen as too powerful. So they like the idea of a rival family, you were right, Your Grace. They are still worried that Manfred or Konradin von Staufen will make a claim for the Emperor’s throne, and are trying to distract them from it by concentrating their efforts on the Kingdom of Sicily, which the Staufen fear losing . . . ”

  And so he goes on.

  I remember Guido Terzani—God damn him to Hell. All his talk of the “Nine Circles,” the hierarchy of influence, and his milking of my purse for every step I took, every morsel of information and advice. All I needed was an Emmerich Schäffer, a fox, a weasel, to burrow amongst the gossipmongers that mill around the Court. And his services are for free. Well, nearly. He has already “borrowed” three marks from me.

  The dynamic of our relationship changed on our second meeting, in which I casually asked if he had heard the news of his sister Grete’s expropriation of the Rosheimer Fortune. He answered in a rather thin voice that he indeed had not heard this news, and then continued with another topic of conversation, as if the matter was of no great concern to him.

  Yet Hieronymus told me later that Schäffer had gone pale upon hearing my question, his face showing signs of visible distress. And since then, Emmerich Schäffer has made it clear to me—as clear as constant hint and inference can make it—that he would like nothing better than to return to Hagenburg and serve as my Secretary and Adviser.

  But one anxiety stands in the way of his return: he fears the Baron von Kronthal, from whom he stole a large sum of money, and who swore to have him killed.

  † † †

  My pallium has finally been sent to me in my chambers. It is as yet unconsecrated by the Holy Father, but the Maker of Vestments wishes to try it upon my shoulders, and make any necessary adjustments.

  For a piece of clothing that has cost me some thousand marks (the Diocese of Hagenburg’s “tithe” upon appointment of a new Bishop), I feel it should be made of golden thread, but it is merely a loose collar of blanched, fine wool. Nevertheless its appearance is harbinger of Good News: the Pope will consecrate the pallium, anoint me as Bishop, and deliver his boon—the annulment of the von Kronthal—von Moder marriage—on this coming Advent Sunday.

  Our long stay in Orvieto is coming, finally, to a successful end.

  PRINZBACH

  (ANNO 1263. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL IX)

  He looks at me with his soft, mournful eyes. It’s not that he reproaches me, but his sadness is unbearable. He mopes as he tends the fire, mopes as he pours the wine, mopes as he eats. When I make a joke, he smiles. But his smile is like drizzling rain, dousing all mirth.

  I can’t take it any more. “All right, Tybolt, very well, you may ride with me to Prinzbach.”

  His eyes shine. And when he thinks I’m not looking, he gives a little jump of joy.

  Oh, the sweet relief.

  We’re in the old Bailiff’s Cottage I’ve lodged him in, on the edge of one of the Kronthal estates. The old Bailiff died some months ago, and his widow’s glad of young, manly company until her son comes back from apprenticeship. But here in the drab, empty foothills, young Tybolt languishes in tedium, stares out at the falling leaves and the drifting rain, and since he’s been here, he’s been sulking like a thrice-kicked cur.

  At least if he rides with me to Prinzbach, I might have some peace.

  And after all, some days past now, a letter came from the Bishop in Orvieto, written with circumspection but no uncertain hope. Your matter has been settled, I await only the formal papal seal. God willing, I will return by Fourth Advent.

  The missive was delivered by liveried episcopal messenger as I was drinking in the zum Sterne. Autumn storms have been raging down from the Vogesen Hills these last long days, and as the herald—against all protocol, but in humane recognition of the evil weather outside—was admitted into our Sternkammer room, a draft of autumn air near blew out all the lamps and candles.

  “From the Bishop, My Lord,” said the messenger loud and clear, bowing and brushing a wet birch leaf off his shoulder, as if he hadn’t already attracted enough attention by his entrance. And so all eyes were upon me as I dismissed him with thanks and broke the seal on the parchment roll.

  “Just some business I have with the Bishop,” I said to the room in general after I had read the brief note, and took a swig of wine, as if it were nothing. But I could feel the eyes of the whole Sternkammer upon me, sparkling with suspicion and curiosity.

  In good heart and high spirits, I passed by Vergersheim’s offices to tell him the good news. I even clapped him on the shoulder as if he were one of my braves. “Once the seals are dry on this and Prinzbach I’ll be needing your services again, so get ready. You were right, Vergersheim, my boy. For the new von Kronthal court I’ll need a whole legion of penpushers and ink monkeys!”

  But Vergersheim merely winced and looked darkly into his folded hands.

  “Oh, brighten up, you woodlouse! Come out into the sun and play! Doubtless you and your bevy of clerks will milk me for thousands! So celebrate!”

  Even the promise of showers of gold didn’t manage to raise a smile. “Maybe you spoke with that shepherd’s son Schäffer in this way, My Lord, but I am a Magistrate of the Court of Hagenburg.”

  He’s no joy at all, this Vergersheim. He’ll have to brighten up and lose his airs and graces, or I’ll find another counsel who’s decent company. I calmly remind him, “Know your place, Vergersheim. If I wish to joke with you, I shall. I am one of the first Lords of the Alsace.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” he says. “You are right. Forgive me.”

  † † †

  We set out towards the Rhine and the Taubensand crossing to Prinzbach. Despite the wind and the shuddering waves of autumn rain, Tybolt is happy as a truffle pig to be riding abroad on Baronial business.

  The roads are drenched. And empty, thank the Lord. There’s no one abroad on days like these, even the peasants are huddled in their hovels, all their windows stuffed with rags and dung, sleeping in fuggy darkness, eyes dead to the world outside.

  Prinzbach itself is a sorry sight. Most of the barracks and miners’ shanties standing empty, the fortified walls dank with rain. Only the tavern and the chapel and a clutch of houses have smoke curling into the overcast, stormy sky.

  I’m here to set up the garrison. Old von Kolzeck, soaked in wine and lost in grief, held out until All Hallows and then could take no more. He and his few remaining, ragged braves slunk back to old Kolzeck Castle two valleys away, tails between their legs and bottles of aquavit in their delirious hands.

  I wish them a Merry Advent-Tide. But now the Prinzbach mines
belong to me. (And twenty per centum to Bishop von Zabern, let’s not forget. From his letter, it looks like he’s held up his end of the deal.)

  In the smoky tavern, we hang our clothes up to dry and sit in our underwear, wrapped in sheepskin blankets, devour the hearty Black Forest ham pottage, and knock back young golden wine of this year’s vintage.

  Young Tybolt gets tipsy, starts telling some stories from his life in Lothringen. I’ve seen it before in boys his age: that gauche eagerness, that desperation to Impress. And maybe the stories are funny in some little, backwater estate in the Lorraine. But I sit there with gritted teeth and a painted-on smile, and try and push out some generous laughter.

  I notice the Landlord’s Daughter is glancing dreamily at Tybolt, so I tell the boy to get us some more wine, and while he’s at it, talk to the girl. She’s not bad looking for a Black Forest wench, has big blinking calf’s eyes, some good meat on her haunches, plenty to get stuck into for a young lad. “Once the garrison arrive tomorrow there’ll be two dozen more mouths to feed round here. Ask her about provisions and supplies—we’ll need food round the winter. Make yourself useful so I don’t have to organise everything myself.”

  He nods happily, pleased with the responsibility. And I’m released from his lame-limping stories.

  Looking over at him later, leaned up on the counter, nattering with the Girl, all smiles and sideward glances, an idea comes to me that’ll catch two birds with one seed, keep Tybolt safe and out of open view, and toughen him up, show him the sharp side of the sword.

  † † †

  When I tell Tybolt that he’s staying at Prinzbach, he starts up with his mournful face again. It’s early morning, my head is throbbing like all the devils of Hell are dancing in it, and I’m in no mood for Pouting. “You’ll do as I bloody say, and no moping about it. That Landlord’s girl likes you, Boy. She’ll keep you warm at night as the winter draws in.”