by Iny Lorentz
She nodded. “You’re right. It would be better for you to keep a close eye on your people, since not all of them seem ready to serve under your command.”
One of the men she had in mind with this comment was Falko von Hettenheim, a haughty and arrogant knight for whom the only important things were noble birth and a long line of ancestors. On the very day he arrived, he’d slandered Michel, calling him an innkeeper’s brat and an incompetent upstart. Marie overheard his comments and had to force herself not to lash out at his arrogance and give him a piece of her mind. It was no secret that Michel had been born as the fifth son of a Constance innkeeper, rather than the son of a knight, but he’d proven his worth to the count palatine and had been justly rewarded for his services with his current position.
Indeed, Sir Falko believed he could manhandle anyone of lesser rank than himself, treating them no better than serfs. Only the previous day he’d ambushed Marie in a corridor, dragged her into an empty chamber, pulled up her skirt, and rubbed his hip against her thigh. Not until he’d needed a hand to open his fly had she been able to break away and run. He was furious at her escape, and his curse was still ringing in her ears. For a while she’d considered telling Michel about the incident, but she finally decided to keep quiet. Since Michel and Falko were headed into battle together, she didn’t want to provoke a quarrel between them.
Michel noticed Marie’s pinched lips and took her in his arms. “It’s time, my love. I wish you all the best.”
“With all my heart, I wish it for you as well, and I’m already longing for your return!” Hugging and ardently kissing him, Marie then stepped back. Timo brought forward Michel’s horse, a sturdy bay gelding that was faster and had more stamina than the knights’ impressive warhorses even though it was a bit smaller. Michel easily swung himself into the saddle, took the reins in his right hand, and raised his left hand to attract his men’s attention. “We’re setting off. Hurrah for the count palatine!”
His soldiers waved their pikes and returned the hurrah, but the others only faintly echoed the cry.
With Michel at the head of the procession, everyone else then took their places. Falko von Hettenheim clearly had to force himself to follow, keeping his horse so close to Michel that its head almost touched Michel’s leg. As Falko glanced over at Marie, jealousy and hatred flashed across his face as he compared that castle beauty with his own wife, a plump and plain woman who hadn’t roused his desire for a long time. He couldn’t repudiate his wife, however, because she was the daughter of Count Rumold von Lauenstein, a valued liege man and close adviser of the count palatine. But he reassured himself with images of victors’ spoils ahead, since he’d heard that Bohemian women were very beautiful. He planned to enjoy their charms to the fullest, whether he had to take them by force or they gave themselves to him willingly.
Lost in his reveries, he slackened his reins, his horse dropping back until it was trotting alongside Godewin von Berg’s mount.
Godewin, who’d been Falko’s friend since youth, nudged him and grinned from under his open visor. “Why so deep in thought?”
“I was thinking of the wenches I’ll be mounting along the way,” Sir Falko replied.
“I just hope we’ll find enough for all of us. The innkeeper’s son thought it beneath him to hire camp prostitutes.” Godewin gave a sigh of resignation.
Falko laughed maliciously. “Maybe Captain Gutter Rat was worried his wife would join the line of venal women. I hear she was a wandering whore before the lad married her. It’s still a mystery why our count would put such dishonorable lowlifes in the Rheinsobern castle.”
“Maybe Mistress Marie lifted her skirts for the right people. You don’t find a tasty morsel like her every day.”
Sneering lustfully, Sir Falko spurred his horse until it had caught up with Michel’s bay again. In his view, war was primarily about one’s own glory. He, Falko von Hettenheim, would certainly not leave it to an innkeeper’s brat, whether the count palatine put him in charge or not.
When Michel saw the horse’s shadow approaching, he turned to Falko and easily read the expressions on his face. Falko was seething with rage at having to obey a man he viewed as so far beneath him as to not even merit notice. But he couldn’t do anything about it, because by the time he’d arrived with his squire, two horsemen, and five poorly equipped bowmen, the count had already declared Michel their leader. For the time being, Falko had no choice but to accept the subordinate role.
Michel, however, was convinced he could assert himself with Hettenheim and the other knights, though he suspected it wouldn’t be easy and he knew it should happen before the first battle, at the latest. But despite any problems the march ahead might bring, Michel was optimistic. His wagons were in top condition, loaded high with food and equipment, so he wouldn’t have to waste any time foraging. The provisions had originally been intended just for him and his foot soldiers, but he’d soon realized he’d also have to feed the knights and their men because they had only brought one or two packhorses each to carry the noble lords’ personal belongings. He hoped that his generosity would make it easier for the noble lords to accept his leadership, ideally by the time they joined up with Sigismund’s troops at Nuremberg, as the count had ordered.
Surveying his noble companions, he wondered which one of them would align with him first. Falko von Hettenheim would not, but maybe Godewin von Berg, whose posture and expression showed his uncertainty. Nodding at him with a cheerful smile, Michel noted that the young man returned his greeting almost shyly.
4.
Marie stayed in the courtyard until the last wagon had rolled through the gate and she could no longer hear the crunch of the iron-rimmed wheels on the cobblestones. All that remained were a few horse droppings to bear witness to two hundred brave men having just gone to war. Shivers ran down her spine at the thought of what might await Michel and his men in faraway Bohemia, and she wrapped her arms around herself tightly. Would it be a brief, glorious battle and a happy return home—or death?
Trying to shake herself free from the grip of her dark premonitions, she reluctantly turned back toward the drafty chambers of Sobernburg Castle. Although she’d been living there for a decade, she knew that it would never fully feel like home. If she and Michel hadn’t shared every joy and sorrow together and tried to make their life there as pleasant as possible, she never could have stayed as long as she had. But they had managed to make the little town at the foot of the castle flourish so that now it generated three times as much revenue for the count palatine as it had under the previous castellan.
Their own wealth had likewise grown with the city, and Marie didn’t even know offhand which vineyards, farms, and houses belonged to them. Indeed, most neighboring knights in their ancestral castles didn’t have a tenth of what she and Michel now called their own. Even after they had to use twelve purses full of three dozen gold ducats each—their entire savings from the last three years—to finance the military campaign, they were far from poor. In any case, Marie didn’t mind spending the money for weapons, clothing, flour, bacon, peas, wine, and other provisions, because they would contribute to Michel’s safe return home. Though Michel was convinced that he’d handily recoup these expenses with war booty, Marie wasn’t so sure. The uprising had lasted more than six years now, and so far Sigismund hadn’t had a single victory over the Hussites worth mentioning. Regardless, Marie didn’t care whether his pockets were full or empty when he came back; she only wanted to see him again as soon as possible.
Realizing that she had been standing in the courtyard for a while, lost in thought, she suddenly remembered her duties. She opened her book of accounts but put it away shortly thereafter when she couldn’t get the numbers to add up. Wandering into the chamber that held the chests with clothes, bedding, tableware, and other necessary household items, she made a halfhearted attempt to identify everything in need of replacement. But she couldn’t focus
on that task, either. Eventually she gave up trying to pretend that everything was normal and called for her housekeeper.
“Marga, tell Timo to saddle my horse!” As she spoke, she remembered that Timo was with Michel and hastily added, “Or any stable boy.”
The housekeeper nodded and quickly left the room as silently as she had entered. A few minutes later, Marie heard her powerful voice ringing across the yard.
The woman had also served as housekeeper for the previous castellan of Sobernburg Castle. Hardworking and an expert in every aspect of her duties, Marga was able to assert her will with a few well-placed words, so Marie had kept her on. But even after all those years, their relationship had remained chilly. Marie regretted this because she would have liked to have enjoyed the same close, trusting relationship that her friend Mechthild von Arnstein, the energetic mistress of Arnstein Castle, had with her housekeeper, Guda. In that relationship, the two women not only chatted about household issues but also discussed personal matters, sharing sorrows and joys. Now more than ever, Marie longed for a person to whom she could pour out her heart.
Marga’s return jolted Marie out of her anxious thoughts.
“Your horse is ready.”
The housekeeper bowed without looking her mistress in the eye. She never did, because the rumors she’d heard about the castellan and his wife had instilled in her an insurmountable dislike for the couple. Marie Adler was no lady of rank—and worse, she wasn’t even an honorable woman. Rumor had it that when she was young, she’d been convicted of loose morals and beaten with the rod. Indeed, Marga had seen the telltale scars of a whipping on her mistress’s back. Nor was the castellan of noble birth, either. As a result, Marga had spent the last ten years bemoaning the fate that had lifted two such unworthy people far above their stations and showered them with wealth. She despised them from the bottom of her heart, but she forced herself to swallow her anger and bow her head, because otherwise she would have lost her position that ranked her far above the regular servants and even above most Rheinsobern citizens.
Not noticing Marga’s grim expression, Marie left the room with a sigh of relief. Desperate to escape the castle walls, where every stone and every piece of furniture reminded her of Michel, she needed someone to talk to and decided to visit the only person who understood her, her old friend Hiltrud. Marie could also have gone to see her cousin Hedwig who lived in town with her husband, the cooper Wilmar Häftli. But that couple thought Marie was akin to a saint, not understanding that she was simply human, with her own fears and needs. Unlike Hedwig, Hiltrud would not only listen to Marie, but she’d also empathize and do everything she could to take her friend’s worries away.
Using a bench so she wouldn’t have to ask a servant for help, Marie climbed onto Bunny and left the castle. As she rode along the city’s main road, people bowed and greeted her respectfully. Marie returned the greetings with more cheer than she actually felt and even stopped Bunny twice to accept proffered petitions, but she was glad to finally leave the city behind.
Just out of town, she reined Bunny in and started down the road leading from the Rhine to the east, where a distant cloud of dust marked Michel’s procession. She briefly considered riding after him to clasp him in her arms one more time, but realized that would make him the laughingstock of the other knights and, with a heavy heart, decided against a reunion. Bunny, who instinctively knew the way to Hiltrud’s house after countless visits, made the decision easier by simply trotting along without any guidance from Marie.
The goat farm was one of the largest in the Rheinsobern district, comprising several half-timbered buildings made of clay and woven willow branches and, except for the barn, foundations of fieldstones. The stable and barn were roofed with wooden shingles, whereas the imposing main building was topped with bright red tiles. A dozen cows were grazing on the meadow next to the yard, and nearby a young maid was minding a large herd of goats. Thomas, Hiltrud’s husband, was working in his fields, and Hiltrud was standing on a small veranda, churning butter. She didn’t stop when Marie dismounted, using the fence enclosing the farm’s vegetable garden as support.
Marie tied Bunny to an apple tree and rushed toward Hiltrud.
“Mmm! Fresh butter! I’ve come at just the right time.”
Hiltrud looked her friend over, noting once again that Marie had hardly changed in the last decade. If anything, she’d become even more beautiful. Hiltrud had gained a bit of weight over the years, and a few wrinkles were starting to show on her face. But in spite of her unusual height, she was still considered an attractive woman. Her husband, formerly a bonded goatherd, had also put on a few extra pounds, and the two of them were now respected farmers content with themselves and the world. Much of their happiness was due to their being so richly blessed with children, something Marie herself had longed for so eagerly. Hiltrud had given birth to seven children, five of whom had survived and gave their parents hope they’d live to reach adulthood. The two eldest were Michel and Marie, nicknamed Michi and Mariele to distinguish them from their godparents, and they were already helping with farmwork while five-year-old Mechthild looked after her little brothers, Dietmar and Giso.
Watching the three towheaded younger children playing by the stables, Marie was overcome by a wave of jealousy. While fortune had so lavishly smiled on Hiltrud, Marie grieved because she hadn’t been able to give Michel an heir. She instantly scolded herself for these thoughts, silently asked her friend for forgiveness, and wished her every possible good fortune, because she’d never forget how Hiltrud had saved her life against all odds those many years before.
“You look as though you’re carrying more sorrow than you can bear.” Hiltrud was still able to read Marie’s mind and knew her friend hadn’t come just for a few slices of freshly buttered bread and idle gossip. Hiltrud’s eyes turned to the east, where they could still see a strikingly long cloud of dust. “I know why your heart is heavy. That’s Michel marching to Bohemia over there, isn’t it? May God be with him!”
“If I spurred Bunny, I could be with him in less than an hour, and yet I feel as miserable as if he’d left me months ago.” Marie sighed and forced a smile. “Isn’t that crazy?”
Hiltrud shook her head resolutely. “That’s not crazy at all. The day you no longer miss your husband is the day you’ve stopped loving him. When Thomas is away for even a single day, I get as restless as a mother hen who’s lost one of her chicks.”
She paused, glanced into the butter churn, and nodded with satisfaction. “Done. Now I can treat you to a bite.”
“Your butter tastes so much better than what we’re served in the castle.” Marie licked her lips, but her thoughts immediately returned to her husband. “I hope Michel will find enough to eat in Bohemia.”
“Chin up, Marie! He’s a clever lad—I’m sure he won’t starve. Should he ever find himself in a tight spot, he’ll know what to do.” Opening a side door, Hiltrud went into her kitchen. Her three youngest children had been peering at her and Marie for some time, and they were now running across the yard, their little legs hurrying to catch up. Although it was only March, there was no kitchen fire burning because of the unusually warm spring weather, and inside the cool room, a long table of roughly hewn timber sprawled with benches and stools for more than a dozen people. The door to the pantry stood open, and Marie could see that Hiltrud still had ample provisions despite the early time of year, along with a remarkably large selection of baskets, buckets, and bowls. Dozens of sausages and hams were dangling from the kitchen ceiling, a testament to their owners’ prosperity.
Once again, Marie’s thoughts drifted back to Michel, who would be making good progress in that fine weather despite the heavily loaded oxcarts. The faster he got to Bohemia, she thought, the sooner he’d be back with her. But then she remembered that each step brought him closer to the enemy, and a shiver ran down her spine.
“The Bohemians aren’t really
Michel’s enemies, but rather Sigismund of Bohemia’s enemies because they took up arms against their king and deposed him.” Only when Hiltrud replied did Marie realize she’d spoken her thoughts aloud.
“Michel is marching against the Bohemians, so they’re his enemies as well.” Hiltrud’s worldview was much simpler than Marie’s, and she’d never wasted much time considering the motivations of the powerful. She didn’t think it appropriate for someone of her social standing, and the counts and princes did whatever they wanted anyway. It was enough that the farm and the animals belonged to her and that her title deeds were safely stored at the bottom of her chest. Her title was also written down in the records of the castellan of Rheinsobern, and an additional copy had been deposited in the Niederteufach monastery. Since they were yeomen or free farmers, Hiltrud’s husband had the right to visit and personally demand justice from the count palatine and was thus able to prevent any attempt by the neighboring nobles to steal their land.
Seeing Marie’s pleading gaze, Hiltrud hastened into the pantry, soon returning with a large loaf of bread. “Now, let’s eat. Would you like a cup of tea or wine?”
Marie preferred tea, but that would have meant extra work for her friend since Hiltrud picked the herbs fresh each time. “I’ll have wine, mixed with two-thirds water, please. I still have to ride home today.”
“You can stay here anytime.”
“I know! But I haven’t let my people know, so they’d come looking for me.”
While Hiltrud cut the fragrant bread into slices as thick as her thumb and buttered them generously, little Giso came wobbling toward Marie and stretched out his arms. “Aunty, pick up!”
Marie reached down with a smile. “My goodness, you’ve gotten heavy!”