Morgarten (Book 2 of the Forest Knights)

by J. K. Swift

  While Vreni and Mera disappeared upstairs to make up two rooms, Seraina and Thomas sat with Sutter at the small kitchen table, since it was the dinner hour and there were a few guests in the main room.

  “You have been to Altdorf, then?” Sutter said to Seraina.

  She nodded. “More men flock to Noll’s fortress every day, from all corners of the Forest Regions,” Seraina said. “If Leopold comes next year, he will be in for a surprise.”

  Sutter’s mouth became hard. “That is good to hear. And what of Landenberg?”

  Seraina feared he would ask about the Vogt of Unterwalden. “The Council will meet and decide his fate,” she said.

  He looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “He should be hung.”

  Seraina could feel Sutter staring at her, but she could not be sure because her own eyes refused to leave her fingers. “I know how you feel, and if it is any consolation, Noll punished the man. I saw his injuries.”

  “That will not stop him from coming right back here and terrorizing us all over again.” He paused. “I have given this some thought. I am going to join the Confederate Army.”

  Seraina could not believe what she was hearing, but it was Thomas who responded first.

  “No, that is a very poor decision. Look around you, Sutter. You have a business, a family, and both need you more than any band of Melchthal’s. If you go to Altdorf, you throw all of this away.”

  “I believe in what Noll is doing,” Sutter said.

  “War is for young men,” Thomas said.

  “You serve this cause better by staying alive,” Seraina said. “Your family needs you.”

  Sutter closed his eyes and massaged his temples with one hand. “You are both right. I am not thinking straight these days.” A dry laugh forced itself from his chest. “I am just a tired, old innkeeper.”

  Seraina could tell Sutter was lying by the way he laughed. He was telling them what they wanted to hear. Thomas seemed to sense it as well, for in a rare show of affection, he reached over the table and put his hand on Sutter’s shoulder.

  “Do what is best for your family. You will never regret that,” Thomas said.

  “What will you do?” Sutter asked.

  As Seraina waited for Thomas’s response, bits of her recent vision flashed through her mind.

  “I have not given it much thought,” Thomas said, leaning back slowly in his chair.

  “You could come stay with us. We need an extra set of hands around the inn.”

  Thomas smiled, but there was more sadness about it than joy. He looked around the kitchen.

  “Thank you, Sutter. I would like that,” he said. “But I think I had better ask Pirmin first. He was always rather protective over this place.”

  While Sutter chuckled at the joke, Seraina looked into Thomas’s dark, almost black, eyes and trembled at what she saw.

  Chapter 7

  The Archbishop’s messenger walked his horse through the gates of High-town just after midnight. A bank of clouds had moved in an hour before, and the evening air was muggy. When the rain finally broke loose, it came in the form of a mist so fine and light he did not bother putting up the hood of his cloak.

  He kept his horse to a walk as he passed through Low-town. The sound of a cantering horse in the dead of night made people nervous and was sure to draw attention. But once he had navigated the maze of cobbled alleys and streets, and the last group of houses lay behind him, the messenger dug his heels into his horse’s side and urged her into a gallop.

  The horse’s shod hooves hit the bridge over the Salzach a minute later, and the sound echoed off the trees and drowned out the noise of water rushing below. The rider did not let up on the reins. Time was more important than stealth now. He knew he was far enough out of the city that no one would hear.

  But he was wrong.

  After the end of the bridge the road banked to the left and narrowed. With the cloud cover, and the drizzling rain, he had no hope of seeing the black-dyed rope stretched taut in his path. It caught him high in the chest and snapped his head back to bounce off his horse’s flank. He rolled backward off his mount and landed hard in the middle of the road. It took several moments before he could breathe, never mind push himself up to his hands and knees. His head cleared enough to realize what had happened and he drew his sword at the same time as he staggered to his feet.

  “Take your time,” a rough voice said. “Neither one of us is in a hurry now.”

  A man, huge as the night was dark, stood on the road a few feet away. His sword was drawn, but rested point down in the road. His hands were folded over one another on the hilt of, what would be for most men, a two-handed sword.

  The messenger pointed his blade at the figure. He glanced around warily. Emboldened when he saw no others, he at last found his voice.

  “Who are you to waylay a messenger of the Prince-Archbishop?”

  “At this point, it no longer matters.”

  The Archbishop’s man squinted his eyes and took a step sideways. “I know you”, he said. “You are Leopold’s man. What is the meaning of this?”

  Klaus grunted, and lifted his sword. “You sound plenty rested enough now,” he said.

  The messenger’s eyes widened. “You would raise swords against an official representative of a Prince of the Empire?”

  “No. I just mean to kill one.”

  Klaus shuffled forward and aimed a slow thrust at the man’s midsection. The messenger was surprised by the attack, but he was light on his feet and managed to step back and block. Klaus thrust again, another cumbersome stroke, and this time, encouraged by his opponent’s lack of speed, the messenger countered with a slash at Klaus’s throat.

  Klaus’s sword came alive. It deflected the blow downward and then Klaus whipped the flat of his blade against the man’s leg and head so fast the pain registered in both places simultaneously. He cried out and fell to one knee. Klaus grabbed the wrist of the man’s sword-arm in one of his own massive hands, and squeezed until the messenger’s fingers went numb and the blade fell to the road. Klaus elbowed him in the face, and he fell over with the criss-cross pattern of chainmail covering both eyes and a freshly broken nose.

  Klaus leaned over, took up the man’s sword and threw it as far into the bush as he could. He sheathed his own weapon, grabbed the messenger by his long hair, and dragged the half-unconscious body into the woods. He slowed to pick up a shovel leaning against a tree, and then continued with his prize deeper into the black forest.

  When he felt they were far enough from the road, Klaus let go of the man. His head bounced off a root and he groaned. Klaus kicked the messenger’s feet.

  “Wake up,” he said.

  Only a fool would throw a body into a river. They have a tendency to bloat, rise up to the surface, bounce along on currents, and eventually show up in a fisherman’s net, or get mangled in some miller’s wheel. Careful men preferred holes. So long as they were deep enough to keep the meat from prying wolves, holes were always a better alternative than water.

  Looking after Duke Leopold had made Klaus a careful man. And sometimes, a lazy man. Digging holes was hard work, and Klaus was no longer a young man.

  Klaus kicked the messenger’s feet until his eyelids flickered open. He threw the shovel on the ground and its sharp tip broke the earth, spilling soil over his face. The man turned his head and spit dirt from his mouth. His eyes were white with fear as he looked up at the giant above him.

  “Dig,” Klaus said.

  ***

  The sound began as a pitter, like the first few drops of rain hitting an oiled cloak. Rhythmic, almost comforting, it did not penetrate far enough into Leopold’s sleep to wake him. But the pitter grew into a thump, followed by two more, and then a series of bangs. Finally, a frantic whisper cut through the heavy door and reached Leopold’s ears.

  “Dawn approaches, my lord. You said to wake you well before. Do you hear me?”

  The voic
e was coarse and gruff. Completely unsuited to whispering.

  Klaus! What time was it?

  Leopold’s eyes snapped open. He threw back the heavy down quilt and tried to stand, but his foot caught in the blanket. He crashed onto the floor. His head ached and his tongue felt like the wings of a giant moth. He cursed as he scrambled about on the cold flagstones, thankful that he had had the foresight to sleep fully clothed. He pushed himself up and swayed unsteadily until his head cleared.

  By the blood of Mary, I hate mornings.

  The banging started anew.

  “Stop it!” Leopold pulled open the door and Klaus took a step back. “I am up. No need to wake the entire castle.”

  “You said to wake you before first light. No matter what,” Klaus said.

  “Do I look like I am sleeping?”

  “I have seen dead men look more awake,” Klaus said, as Leopold scrubbed his face with the palm of one hand.

  “You have somewhere to be,” Leopold said and slammed the door shut.

  Leopold watched the Archbishop from an alcove in the keep’s outer wall. He was right on time for his morning ritual of walking the entire length of his fortress wall. As the autumn sun crested the surrounding peaks, it began to bathe parts of the city in a warm glow. From this vantage point, the Archbishop could see almost every single household in his city state.

  Leopold rolled his eyes as the Archbishop stopped and stared out over the wall. Seeing his lands and subjects spread out before his feet like that must feed the man’s already bulging sense of self-worth, he thought. He took a breath and stepped out from his hiding spot.

  “Salzburg has indeed flourished under your rule,” Leopold said, strolling forward casually to join the Archbishop.

  He twisted his head at the sound of Leopold’s voice and the bulk of his body followed later, as though they belonged to different people. His eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked his lips. Extreme annoyance twisted his features for only the briefest of moments before it disappeared, but not before Leopold could notice.

  What is the matter, my Archbishop? Did I interrupt your daily moment of solitude?

  “I hope I am not intruding, Archbishop.”

  “Of course not. You surprised me is all. I did not take you for an early riser, Duke Leopold.”

  Leopold put his elbows on the wall and gazed out over the landscape. He let out a breath and the cool morning air turned it to vapor.

  “Oh, I do so enjoy a morning walk. It clears one’s mind and presents previously unimagined possibilities.” Leopold’s puffy eyes squinted against the brightness of dawn. “Salzburg truly is a beautiful city. I must make the time to visit more often.”

  “You are welcome here whenever you wish, Lord Leopold. Your father was a great friend to me and it is my hope that our friendship will live on in our own relations.”

  You hated my father. Perhaps even as much as I did.

  “Why thank you. I do always enjoy the time we spend together. And I apologize for not calling upon you the last time I was in Salzburg.”

  The archbishop blinked. “You were in the city recently? I wish I had known.”

  I am sure you do.

  “I meant to come up to the castle, but my business confined me to Low-town, and before I knew it, I had to leave again for Habsburg. I am sure you understand. Men in positions such as ours have so many demands placed upon our short time here on this earth.”

  “And some men’s lives are cut shorter than they would like,” the Archbishop said.

  Some live far too long.

  Leopold laughed. “All men’s lives are shorter than they would like. Young, or old, it does not matter.”

  “I trust your business went well?”

  Leopold stopped smiling and put on his best disinterested look. “Business, archbishop?”

  “In Low-town. You claimed you were there on some sort of mercantile endeavor.” When he mentioned the merchant class, the bishop’s face soured like he had drunk week-old milk.

  Leopold chuckled. “A slip of the tongue. I was unclear. When I said business, I really meant nothing of the sort. It was mercy that brought me to Salzburg that day. A weakness of mine, some say. You see, I have a soft spot for widows. Especially ones with children to care for.”

  The archbishop said nothing. The skin at his neck turned a mottled shade of red and gray.

  Leopold patted his chest while he gazed out over the wall at the city below.

  “Ah, here it is.” He removed a cylindrical object from a pocket beneath his vest. He carefully unwrapped it from a short length of yellow silk and held it up for the Archbishop to inspect.

  “Have you seen one of these looking glasses?”

  The Archbishop nodded. “I have. The church still debates the godliness of these instruments. I must say, it saddens me to see one in your hand.”

  Leopold slid the looking glass open to its full length. “It is only a matter of time before the Pope himself has his very own.”

  Leopold stepped near the wall and held the scope up to one eye. He looked toward the snow-capped peaks in the distance and then slowly lowered it until it passed over the Salzach River. He scanned the three-story noble houses of Low-town until he found what he was looking for.

  “Very useful tool,” he said. “Oh, look. Is that… why, yes it is! The red lion of Habsburg held by my very own flag bearer. Incredible.”

  He pulled the looking glass away from his eye and held it out to the Archbishop.

  “You really must see this.”

  When the Archbishop made no move to take the scope Leopold said, “Do not worry. This one was made in Strassburg, by German craftsmen. It is not an original from the Mohammedans’ land. No infidel hands have touched it, I assure you.”

  The Archbishop took a half step back. “I would rather—”

  Leopold thrust out the looking glass and pressed it against the Archbishop’s chest.

  “I insist,” he said.

  The Archbishop’s hands shook as he held the glass up to his eye. For all his resistance to the idea of the instrument, he seemed quite familiar with its use.

  “Did you really think you could keep your whore and her five children a secret?”

  The Archbishop said nothing. He kept the glass pressed against his eye.

  What part of the scene below holds your attention so? Is it the sight of my soldiers standing in your secret mistress’s courtyard? The woman herself, kneeling, in tears? Or is it her children being loaded into a carriage by armed Habsburg men? These clerics can be so hard to read at times.

  “How old was the whore when she bore your first bastard? Eleven? Twelve, perhaps? Surely not thirteen. What a hag she must have been.”

  The Archbishop whirled on Leopold. He threw the looking glass to the ground and the lenses shattered.

  “She is no whore,” he said. A vein throbbed at his temple and his skin flushed with rage.

  Leopold took a step back and held up his hands. “No? Well, perhaps I am wrong. Maybe we should ask the Pope to be the judge of what she is or is not.”

  The Archbishop’s face paled instantly. But to his credit, his voice was steady and in control when he spoke.

  “What is it that you want, Leopold?”

  “Two thousand infantry, a thousand knights, and five hundred gold. To provide for the upkeep of your men while in my care.”

  “Their upkeep would not cost half that,” the Archbishop said.

  Leopold shrugged. “I treat my men better than you, I suppose. And one more thing. I should think a public holy blessing would not be too much to ask.”

  “What of the woman?”

  “She may remain in Salzburg, in that lovely house you had built for her. But the children will come to live in Habsburg for a time, as my wards. Their mother being a poor widow and all.”

  The Archbishop turned away and stared down once more at the city. In a few short moments his body had experienced a full gamut of emotions. They had taken their toll, and
now he just looked like a tired old man. Even his flowing red robes could not hide that fact. Leopold put his hands on the wall and, like the Archbishop, gazed out over the city.

  The sun was at full light. Soon the city would come alive.

  “What a beautiful day. I do so love mornings,” Leopold said.

  Chapter 8

  Altdorf’s small, stone church, situated on top of a hillock at the eastern edge of town, was a squat, gray structure seemingly as old as the hills themselves. Thomas stepped into the shadow of the cross erected on its roof and walked around to the back of the building.

  Most people hated cemeteries, but Thomas had always found them comforting. As a child, whenever he felt the need to be alone, he would leave the stench of the city behind and run to the cemetery outside Acre’s gates. Later, as a young man in Cypress, he would spend hours walking amongst the graves, trying to read their inscriptions. Of course he felt closer to God when he set foot on holy ground, but, he doubted that was the only reason for the attraction. He suspected it had more to do with escaping the world of men, even if it was for only a short time.

  Today, however, his steps were heavy, and not just because of his injuries. He avoided looking too closely at the crosses until he was surrounded by them. When he did finally look up, wondering where he would find Pirmin’s grave, he saw a young boy and a dog. The boy sat on the ground next to a mound of dirt, blacker than the other ones nearby, and much larger. He looked up at the same time Thomas saw him. He jumped to his feet, gave his backside a quick brush with his hand, and ran away toward the far gate.

  Thomas paid the boy no mind, for his full attention was captured by the dog. It was Pirmin’s young pup. He tried to remember the dog’s name, but the boy was quicker.

  “Vex! C’mon boy!”

  The dog stopped sniffing the ground and bounded after the boy without any hesitation. The boy gave Thomas a scowl and then both he and the dog disappeared through a gap in the fence.

  Thomas limped to the fresh grave. If that is indeed Pirmin’s grave and the street rat has defiled it in any way, I will make him sorry….