by Ben Hopkins
He smiles shyly, nods, pulls his coat around him. And it’s true, the weather has turned. After the storm that raged all night, the dawn came up crisp and bitter. And the hazy blue sky is now deepening to black in the West. It looks like the First Snows are coming.
The Miners—what’s left of them—want to show me, their new Lord, the silver mine. They take us to a muddy hole in the side of the hill, where a half-blind old lady sits, wrapped in sheepskins, and polishes and primes the lamps. Her crooked fingers poke in the ashes of her fire, and she plucks out a glowing coal with her bare hands to light the wicks.
“This way, My Lords,” says the Foreman, and leads us deeper into the cave, through grey sludge and piles of stones, to where rough wood struts bulk the low, dug-out ceiling. Tybolt and I have to stoop. “It wasn’t made for men such as you,” says the Foreman. “We Miners, we’re all short and stocky, like Dwarves.”
A hole drops down, deep into the ground. Wooden ladders are clenched to the rock, held in place by iron rods. “I’ll light the lamps as I go down,” he says. “And then you follow, My Lords, one after the other. The ladder might not take the two of you at the same time.”
Tybolt goes first, I follow after. From somewhere deep below, the ringing sound of hammer and chisel, blow after blow.
Three ladders down, and there is solid rock beneath my feet, dry, crunching dust. The lamp in the Foreman’s hand breathes, glowing amber and gold. “Come,” he says. We turn one shadowy corner and then another, catching a glimpse as we go of a lone miner, kneeling on a sheepskin, chiselling glistening ore by the light of his lamp.
We come to a small, dim chamber, carved into the rock. “Have you ever seen total darkness, My Lords?” asks the Foreman, and before we can even answer, the mischievous dwarf blows out his lamp.
For a few, brief moments, the green echo of the lanternflame glows in my eyes, but then dims into a black so deep, it’s like the Essence of Nothing. I wave my hands in front of my face, but there is not even a glimmer, not even a shifting of the shadow to show that they are there.
And we stand there, in the black heart of silver, in the darkness of the earth from which all wealth is hewn, and listen to the sounds of our beating hearts. And in the perfect blackness, I start to think.
Is this what Hell is like? Is this what awaits the Sinner, a cold, intangible, infinite Darkness?
For the first time in my life that I can remember, I become afraid.
My breath starts to come hard and fast.
“Peter!” shouts the Foreman, suddenly, somewhere to my right. “Bring your light to the chamber!”
“Right-o!” comes the distant cry of the lone miner.
“Tybolt?” I ask, suddenly afeared, somehow, that my Boy is gone. That I am here alone.
“Here, My Lord,” says Tybolt, and his fingers, feeling their way, find my upper arm.
Then a glow, still faint, as the miner with the lamp approaches, and the darkness is lifted. I can see Tybolt’s pale face. He looks at me and asks, beneath his breath, “Father, are you well?”
He has seen my Fear.
I turn away and cough, as if all that is troubling me is a cold. “I am well, my Boy. I’m well.”
† † †
The garrison soldiers, under Vogelsang’s command, ride up at midday. They got caught in the storm, bivouacked in some Black Forest farmstead, and they look even more like brutal animals than they normally do.
“Dismount, men! Get some hot food inside you!” I shout, and draw Vogelsang aside to meet Tybolt. The Bishop should be home in a matter of weeks. It’s time to bring the boy slowly out into the world.
“This is my Son, Vogelsang. Show him how it’s done. Discipline. Organisation. How to provision and maintain a garrison. He has plenty to learn, but he’ll take over from me one day.”
Vogelsang’s tired eyes narrow as he takes in Tybolt’s frame, his fingers play with the scar on his chin. “I didn’t know you had a son, My Lord.”
“Well, I do, Captain. And soon the World will learn it.”
“How do I address him?”
“As ‘my Lord.’ He’s a von Kronthal. But don’t overdo it. He’s your pupil now, Vogelsang, and if he steps out of bounds . . . ”
“I’ll put him in chains on bread and water. But I’ll give him a nice cushion for his noble arse, My Lord.”
“You’ve got the frame of it, Captain. I entrust him to you. He’s tougher than he looks, that’s all I’ll say.”
Vogelsang nods, bows. Takes Tybolt’s upper arms in his hands. “Strong arms, My Lord. Let me have some breakfast, then we’ll start.”
Tybolt smiles, looks at me. I can see he’s anxious, but also proud. I take him in my arms, give him the Kiss of Peace. He looks me in the eyes, steady and calm, as if witnessing my moment of weakness has given him strength. And now that I’ve acknowledged him to the world, no more pouting, all his moping has gone.
I dislike long farewells. “I’ll come back for you by Christmas.”
† † †
The first snows have come, turning to slush in the lower plain, but draping the upper hills in ermine white. I need to arrange to have the rest of Tybolt’s things brought to him in Prinzbach, then all I can do is wait. Wait and pray for the Bishop’s safe return to Hagenburg.
And whilst I wait, I need to gather my friends around me. I’ve been neglecting them, my Sternkammer braves. It’s time for carousing, carousing and joy. An Advent-tide feast in Castle Kronthal. Sled rides through the hills to my hunting lodge, roast goose and hot, spiced wine.
The woods by my Zabern estates are swaddled in white. Pine needles like nails of frost, the silver birches like silver filligree, skeletons of rime. On the path through the forest, I can see traces of horsemen who’ve passed this way maybe hours before, their hoofbeats re-dusted in windblown snow.
Visitors? Or the ostlers, exercising my steeds?
I spur Ashkelon to a canter—it’s too early for ice to have formed on the paths, it must be safe. Obedient to my touch, he welcomes the new pace. He must sense we’ll soon be at the manor house. A stable, a nosebag, a bed of warm straw. I can feel him straining, wanting to break into a gallop, but hold him back. In my Youth I would have relented, thrilling to the speed of the race, uncaring of sliding snow and hidden ice. But now . . .
Suddenly he whinnies, stumbles. He wants to buck . . . I catch sight of it for an instant: a rope. Snapped taut, across the path, between two pines.
But it’s too late. Ashkelon’s fetlocks catch. We plunge. Down, hard. To the ground. And my mind goes black. As black as that infinite darkness I’d seen at the heart of the world.
† † †
“Wake up. Wake up, you mongrel.”
I’m lain flat on the snow. Somewhere I’m bleeding—I can feel the sticky wetness, smell the sour, sweet blood. My back is in agony, pain sluices up and down through my twisted legs.
I open my eyes. And look into the face of my brother-in-law.
Rutger von Moder squats above me in full armour, his face red from the cold. His breath steams as he growls, spitting out his words. “Where is the Bastard? We were told he rode out with you, you dog.”
I say nothing, try and breathe. Try and push myself up, on one elbow.
I look. Behind von Moder, three more armoured men. Von Ährenfeld. Von Moder’s son Reinhard. The Count von Lichtenberg.
Now, I am sitting. Blood is dripping on my shoulder and my upper arm from a cut somewhere on my head.
“Never mind,” says von Moder. “We’ll get the Bastard later.”
Nearby, Ashkelon writhes and whinnies, his legs broken.
“Ashkelon . . . ” is all I can say. My beautiful one. My friend.
“So, when it’s your horse, it’s not such glorious victory, Brother? Get up, you Horse Butcher. Get up and fight.”
My bac
k. Is it broken? I can’t seem to stand.
“I can’t get up . . . ”
Von Moder spits and reaches out his hand. He pulls me upright. I teeter like a drunken carter, draw my sword and plant it in the ground. To hold me steady.
Vergersheim.
It must have been Vergersheim. For a share in the thousands that the von Moders will reap from my Death. Because I insulted him. Because I told him to know his place.
The New Lords of this world. Nib-cutters and ink monkeys.
“Are you ready, von Kronthal? Can you stand and fight like a man?”
I lift my sword from its planting in the ground. Yes, I can stand.
From my back, hot jabbing needles of pain stab my legs and arms. But I can stand and fight.
I can stand.
† Baron Volmar von Kronthal (1212–1263)
ANNO
1264
THE STRAWHEAD GOY
(ANNO 1264. EMMERICH SCHÄFFER II)
Dearest Judah,
At last I have been able to return to Hagenburg. The Baron von Kronthal is dead; it is said he was ambushed by robbers in the Zabern forest. A doubtful story, maybe, but whatever the cause of his demise, it has liberated me from his death sentence, and finally, after some sixteen years, I am able to return home.
It will I hope not surprise you when I say that the first place I went upon arriving in the city was the Judengasse and your house. Please imagine my great sadness and disappointment to discover that you were not there. From what I was told, I have missed you by a matter of months.
They tell me that you are either in Prague or in Kalisch, and so I send this letter to the Jewish elders of Prague, with the request to forward it to wherever you are. I hope and pray that it will find its way to your hands.
Judah, words cannot express my anger. I have learned of the way that my sister has robbed you, deprived you of all you own.
But hear what I say. I am now back in Hagenburg, very much alive, and not dead as the courts ruled me to be in the iniquitous case of this act of robbery. I am in a good position, as the secretary of the righteous new Bishop, Eugenius von Zabern (whom you will doubtless remember).
The matter is legally fraught and far from straightforward, and my sister Grete is wicked and stubborn. Nevertheless please believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to restore the company of Schäffer and Associates to its former status.
This, Judah, I promise you, in recognition of the tender esteem in which I hold you. Not one day has passed in these sixteen years in which I have not thought of you with love and regard. You have been with me in the docks of Constantinopolis, in the bazaars of Aleppo, in the alleyways of Ragusa, by the canals of Venice. Judah, by the ruins of the temple of Jerusalem, I had your name remembered in prayer by a holy man. He said it would bring you good fortune.
I hope it will.
I will write again when I know more. Please inform me of your whereabouts and of your well-being.
I promise to do what I can to restore your fortune.
Emmerich
The Strawhead Goy
SECOND INTERLUDE
ANNO
1318
THE ROSE
(ANNO 1318. ALBRECHT KAIBACH II)
The Pilgrim comes, in his heart a prayer to offer to the Almighty, for the soul of his mother, for the sickness of his ailing child. From his distant village through mud and rain, through the perils of an uncharted journey, he trudges ever onwards on weary feet until he comes to the stir and clamour of the City Gates.
And then into the tumult of Hagenburg.
The Pilgrim, bewildered by the crowds, holds the sight of the Cathedral’s dome before him and advances with caution through the multitude. He has heard the tales of the city’s dangers, of theft, of fraud, of the siren calls of Temptation, Debauchery and Vice. He sees a cornucopia of goods and provisions, piles of hot meat pies and great coils of sausage, pyramids of fruit, glazed hams and glistening baskets of fish. He sees painted women clad in silks, he sees Lords and Gentlemen, beggars, whores and thieves. Urchins throng to his hands, offering him services, girls, a room at the Inn. Anxious and ashamed, he pushes on through this rich new world, his footsteps summoned by the clear, gentle tolling of the Cathedral Bell.
And then, finally, he stands before his goal, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Hagenburg, and sees, rising above him to a heaven that now seems closer than it ever was before, tier after tier of carved and chiselled stone, thousands of stone men, women, angels, monsters, hundreds of representations of his Lord Jesus Christ, the apostles and prophets, the tender Virgin.
He wants to fall to his knees, but does not dare, he fears the laughter of the city crowds, instead, he crosses himself fervently, again and again, and then, breathing deep, enters the Temple, enters inside, and walks into a high, echoing chamber of vaulted stone and coloured light.
† † †
i have told you the story of the yellow glass, children
but now let me tell you the story of the blue glass
a glass of a blue so fine and deep as the sky itself
when i found it in the old escritoire
it came attached to a note
a simple note
an address in Constantinopolis
far, far away
in the land of the Greeks
now, i could follow the yellow glass to the Winzbach vale in Lothringen
but to go all the way to the Levant?
travel for days and weeks over land and sea?
no, that was beyond my means
but one day
it must have been year of our lord twelve hundred and seventy two
for we had near completed the nave
and had nearly finished dismantling the old cathedral’s western towers
i heard in a chance conversation in the new lodge
that one of the Bishop’s advisers
had lived in Constantinople
imagine my surprise!
and so i went to see this secretary Emmerich Schäffer
a rich and influential diocese official
and when i showed him the blue glass and the scribbled note
he smiled and said “that is my hand! i wrote this!
how did you come upon it?”
and so i explained my story of the old escritoire
imagine my wonder when i learned from Schäffer’s mouth
that it was his own brother, a Mason named Rettich
who had been that mysterious amanuensis
who had transcribed the designs of Master Achim all those many years ago!
on hearing that i had taken Rettich’s drawings
completed, adapted, reinterpreted them in my own hand
he asked me to show them to him
in the presence of none other than Eugenius von Zabern
the Bishop himself
and so, children, the time had come
to unveil my secret work of many years
now, that great Bishop was blind
and so he himself could not see what i had done
but others were brought to the audience chamber
priests, canons, secretaries
and all admired and acclaimed what there they saw
and filled the Bishop’s ears with praise
“are there any signs of heresy?” asked the Bishop, blind and stern
and the theologians looked, and could find only sanctity
“your grace,” i said, “there were, in Master Achim’s designs
some motifs and figures for which i could not account,
and those i have replaced
with familiar figures from scripture
such as here
i have depicted the wise and foolish virgins,
&nbs
p; our lord’s parable from the gospel,
my hope being
that pilgrims of the fairer sex
may look upon our cathedral and receive moral instruction”
whereupon the Bishop laughed and said
“indeed, that is surely an idea that Achim von Esinbach would never have had.
that young man’s head was always in another world
from the one in which you might live, Master Kaibach.
instruction of such kind was far from his mind
but rather Visions of a New Jerusalem.”
the Bishop’s face then became sad and he said
“and yet his fate has often weighed upon my soul.
I treated him poorly, that poor young man
and if, somehow, in your work
his life lives on,
then i am glad of it.
now kiss my hand.”
and i knelt and kissed the Bishop’s ring
“you have my blessing,” he said
and that is how i, my children, became
at the tender age of twenty-three
the new dombaumeister of Hagenburg
all my life i have spent around this cathedral
and all my life i have seen
the pilgrims who come from the distant villages
nervous, pale, cowed in awe
in their souls
the terrible fear of damnation
and in their hearts
the thirst for salvation
and what i have done i have done for them
to raise their thoughts to the heaven on high
to lift their spirits from despair and darkness
to offer hope of salvation,