The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “Death to the French! Death to the French!”

  The shrill high screeching brought Agnes back from her thoughts. It came from a rusty cage standing on a traveling trunk in the middle of the boat. Two brightly colored birds with big hooked beaks sat on a perch in it, fluttering their wings in agitation. Agnes had been shocked when she first heard them speaking human language. By now, however, she realized that they were only imitating sounds. Barnabas called them parrots. He had bought them at a market in Naples, like the little monkey, Satan, who was on a leash, picking his way along the side of the boat as he stared at the bank. The monkey danced excitedly, like there were a wild lion lying in wait there, and the men laughed at the show he put on. Someone threw Satan a nut, which he caught skillfully and cracked with his sharp teeth.

  Agnes hated Satan. It was true that she soon realized he was only an animal, not a demon, but all the same she sensed malice in the monkey. His little red eyes seemed to follow her all the time, he scratched and bit, and it was the noise he kicked up that had foiled her first attempt to escape. Sometimes she thought the animal had more brains than his master. He glared at her while he nibbled his nut.

  “Hey, countess! Get your ass back into the boat before I make you move.”

  Barnabas stood in the stern and spat copiously into the water.

  “I don’t like the longing way you look at the other craft on the river,” he went on. “You’ll turn the fishermen’s heads like a mermaid.” He laughed and moved the rudder over to avoid a small whirlpool. The men had hoisted a sail, which made it possible for them to make slow progress upstream even without oars. A slight wind was blowing from the north, showing Agnes yet again that she was going farther and farther from her real destination.

  She sighed quietly and slid down from the rail to sit on one of the front benches meant for oarsmen. They had been traveling for nearly ten days now. The fast-flowing river Queich had taken them to the Rhine, and since then their journey had been calm and monotonous. They were going upstream, which meant that the men sometimes had to row when the current was too strong. Now and then they put in at one of the harbors for ferries, to entertain the paying public with a genuine demon, two talking birds, and a few tricks. Barnabas held the attention of the audience with flamboyant speeches, while Marek and Snuffler picked pockets, and Samuel kept an eye on the two women.

  Samuel was the worst of them. His malice was as great as the monkey’s, and he was almost as hairy as the animal too. He was the brother of the man Mathis had killed at the Albersweiler tavern. Samuel’s eyes often wandered like little spiders over Agnes and the innkeeper’s daughter, Agathe, while he played with his knife and made suggestive remarks. He hadn’t touched them yet, but that was only because Barnabas did not want his wares to be damaged. In addition, the pimp thought that little Agathe was still a virgin, which would put up her price. Barnabas had provided both girls with tight-fitting skirts and bodices such as the whores in the cities wore. When they put in at the little harbors, Agnes felt the men’s eyes lingering on her like dirty fingers.

  “Stop crying, little one. It will only make you tired and hungry.” Agnes turned sympathetically to the innkeeper’s daughter, who crouched in the bottom of the boat, her eyes red rimmed. She had wound her arms around her knees, as if that would keep anyone from touching her. Agathe was only thirteen years old, and she had lived alone with her father since her mother and little sister had died of consumption two years ago. Now her father was dead, too, and Agathe faced a short, unpleasant life as a cheap village whore or a landsknecht’s wife.

  “Would you like me to tell you another story about King Arthur and the Round Table?” asked Agnes, smiling as she bent down to the girl. When Agathe hesitantly nodded, Agnes drew close to her on the bench, and put an arm around her shoulders. Even if she was only a few years older, she felt almost like an anxious stepmother to the girl.

  “The story of the Holy Grail,” Agathe said, wiping her swollen eyes. “How Parcival found the castle of King Amfortas.”

  Agnes began telling the story in a steady voice. She knew the legend so well that it was easy for her to embellish it here and there, or make some slight changes. The girl listened, open-mouthed, forgetting her troubles at least for this short time. It was a mercy not granted to Agnes. She had never felt so alone. Tears rose to her eyes, and it was only Agathe’s dreamy expression that kept her from flinging herself over the rail.

  She needs me. She needs my stories.

  Early in the evening, they put in at a place called Rotmühle. The town had a small ferry harbor, with a tollbooth and a long pier on which several bored quayside laborers were amusing themselves. When word got around that a boat from distant lands had arrived, with talking birds and a small hairy devil, the inhabitants of Rotmühle streamed down to the harbor. Barnabas and his men had made a kind of arena on the pier, with crates and bales of cloth. Inside the arena, the procurer stalked ostentatiously, announcing to the audience the sensational performance to come.

  “The birds are from a country beyond the sea, where the dogs, the cats, even the much-feared lions can talk as well as we do,” he told the gawping locals. “They are wiser than the pope, and more talkative than my revered mother-in-law.”

  The people laughed, while Agnes watched the show—which was always the same—from the rowing bench to which the men had tied her and Agathe. The rope chafed her wrists and, as always, Samuel kept a careful eye on her.

  “You can be glad our master is spoiling you like this,” the robber growled, cleaning his fingernails with the point of his knife. “If I had my way, you two would be feeding the fishes by now.” He grinned. “Of course not before I’d given you both a good seeing-to, by way of saying goodbye.”

  “You’d better hope I don’t tell Barnabas you said that, blockhead,” Agnes retorted. “We’re valuable goods, and don’t you forget it. No playing about with those.”

  She had found out, by now, that the procurer had been going up and down the Rhine and the Danube for several years, looking out for pretty girls he could buy from their destitute parents, selling them to brothels on the Black Sea as precious white-skinned ladies. It was a two-way trade, because he also brought Turkish slaves back to the German lands.

  “Valuable goods, huh?” Samuel spat into the water. “Who says you’re even a countess at all? Maybe those damn peasants lied to us. And if you are, what’s the harm if we fuck you first?” He gave her a sly grin. “After all, we ought to try out our wares, eh?”

  “Touch me and I’ll scream so loud every soul in Rotmühle will hear it. And then we’ll see what your master has to say.”

  Shrugging, Samuel turned away and went back to cleaning his fingernails with the knife. Meanwhile, Barnabas had taken the parrots out of their cage and had one perched on each arm.

  “The pope is a glutton! The pope is a glutton!” one of the birds screeched. Barnabas had taught it that remark, because he had noticed that opinion in the German countries had turned against the Church of Rome, and this trick always got a good laugh. Then he pretended to be horrified and corrected the bird.

  “Carry on like that, and you’ll end up in the Inquisition’s cooking pot,” he threatened. “Follow your brother’s example. He knows what’s right.” He pointed to the other parrot.

  “Hurrah for Emperor Charles! Hurrah for Emperor Charles!” screeched the second bird. But this time the audience did not react.

  “So where’s the emperor when we need him, then?” someone shouted from the back rows. “The clergy, the dukes, the counts are taxing us out of house and home. But not for much longer. There’s a storm brewing in the south fit to blow those fine gentlemen away.”

  Murmurs of agreement rose from the crowd.

  “In Franconia the peasant bands have joined together into a large army,” someone else called. “Even the knights are with them. And down by Lake Constance there’s said to be thousands who forced the seneschal to sign a treaty. We ought to do that here.”r />
  “We don’t need the emperor,” several voices claimed. “We don’t need Charles, nor his brother Ferdinand either. We’ll take what’s rightfully ours for ourselves.”

  Barnabas saw that the situation was getting out of hand. He raised both arms to appease his audience.

  “Mercy, mercy! I promise you I’ll pluck the bird this very day,” he said, smiling, pulling a feather out of the screeching parrot’s tail. “And then we’ll see whether this stupid lickspittle goes on singing the emperor’s praises.”

  A few of the spectators laughed, and Barnabas signed to Snuffler to hand him the monkey. It was time for the high point of the show.

  “So never mind those two fawning courtiers the talking birds, we’ll turn to a demon I caught in the jungle of West India with my own hands. That’s where you’ll find the entrance to hell, and I swear, this monster came crawling straight from the jaws of the inferno itself . . .”

  Agnes turned away. She had heard the performance almost a dozen times now. Barnabas told his tall tales well, but she hated to see Marek and Snuffler secretly picking the pockets of the admiring crowd. She was about to turn back to little Agathe, when she saw something glinting on the bottom of the boat.

  Samuel’s knife.

  The robber was now sitting in the middle of the boat, looking bored and throwing pebbles at the screaming seagulls. He had taken his eyes off the two prisoners, and the knife must have fallen out of his pocket.

  Agnes reached her feet out, stretching as far as possible, but she could not get close enough to the knife. Finally she nudged Agathe, who was closer to it. The girl was about to protest, but then she saw what Agnes was looking at, and understood her meaningful gaze. Agathe nodded, and with her own feet pushed the knife within reaching distance of Agnes.

  Both of them had their hands tied to the oarsmen’s bench, but Agnes had no shoes on, so she could grasp the small knife with her toes. She slowly pulled it closer to her, until at last she felt the blade against her left calf.

  “Curse it, when’s the old fellow going to finish this performance? I want to go and get a drink before nightfall.”

  Samuel suddenly turned in their direction as he stared listlessly at the crowd of people on the quayside. Agnes gave a start, and the knife threatened to slip away from her toes. She felt sweat making her skin slippery. Beside her, Agathe let out a soft whimpering sound.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Samuel, looking suspiciously at the innkeeper’s daughter.

  “You want a drink, do you?” Agnes quickly put in. “There’s a tavern over on the other side of the river. If you’re lucky Barnabas may be going there later.”

  “Over where?” Samuel turned back to the river again. “Curses, I don’t see anything.”

  “Over there, you slowworm. Near the three large linden trees where they’re just unloading that raft.”

  While Samuel, baffled, gazed at the opposite bank, Agnes worked the knife far enough up the side of her leg to be able to take it in her fingers at last. Relieved, she hid it in the hollow of her hand.

  “Oh, the light in the window has just gone out,” she said with feigned surprise. “I’m afraid they must be closing.”

  “Stupid whore.” Samuel threw a stone at her, but she ducked swiftly away. The knife in her hand felt cool and good. For a moment she considered cutting the rope at once, trying to overpower Samuel, and casting the boat off. But then she realized that Barnabas would soon be coming to the end of his performance, and there would be too much danger of his coming back before she had finished. So she thrust the knife up inside the sleeve of her dress. There would be a better opportunity soon.

  Shortly the other men did indeed come back to the boat.

  “Stingy Rhinelanders,” Barnabas grumbled, while Satan hopped frantically up and down on his shoulder. “Devil take them all. Thinking twice about every coin they spend, and carrying on about rebellion until I thought the bailiffs would set the dogs on us.” He grinned. “But all the same we relieved them of a few purses.”

  Marek spoke up thoughtfully. He was the most level-headed of the four men, and acted in a way as Barnabas’s deputy. “Folk are saying there’ll soon be war in Franconia, and Alsace too. It’s all seething with unrest there. Peasants are gathering everywhere, setting castles and monasteries on fire. Maybe we’d do better to wait here.”

  “Nonsense,” Barnabas said, heaving the cage with the squawking parrots on board. “The gentry have always cut the peasants down to size. Anyway, if it does come to war, we’re no peasants, nor landsknechts neither. And whores are in even more demand when there’s war than in peacetime.” He laughed, and winked at the two young women.

  “I’m sure we’ll find a pimp ready to pay good money for you in Strasbourg, girlie, and as for the countess here . . .” His eyes went to Agnes, and he smiled broadly. “I’ve something special for you. One of the men from the raft told me just now that Khair Ad-Din’s slave traders are out and about on the Black Sea.”

  Agnes frowned. “Khair who?”

  “The lord of Algiers. A much-feared corsair and a mighty general, even if he’s a godforsaken heathen. The man said he’s looking for fair-skinned noblemen’s daughters for his harem. You’ll fetch a good price for me, my little pigeon. A very good price.”

  The monkey on his shoulder bared its teeth and screeched. The sound was like mocking laughter.

  With a loud cry of rage, Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck smashed a goblet against the wall of his bedchamber and watched the wine drip to the floor, leaving blood-red streaks behind it. For a moment he was prey to the delusion that the wine really was blood, and the goblet a skull that he had beaten against the wall, again and again, with all his might.

  Preferably the skull of that faithless bitch Agnes, he thought. Or the skull of the minstrel who is probably fucking her somewhere . . .

  Friedrich sat down on the edge of the broad four-poster bed, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe calmly. These days he was overcome by fantasies of violence more and more frequently. Even as a small boy he had dreamed of battles in which he bathed in blood. But in the last few months such dreams had become increasingly graphic, and sometimes Friedrich wondered if it was these old walls slowly driving him mad.

  These old walls, or Agnes . . .

  A messenger had just arrived at Scharfenberg to tell him that the search for his wife had been fruitless. The landsknechts he sent out had not been able to find either Agnes or that damned minstrel. The trail petered out in nearby Albersweiler, and from there the two of them—seemingly accompanied by several others—had continued their flight by boat. Before that, their accomplices had killed an innkeeper and some of his guests. It was impossible to find out where they had gone. The German Empire was large, and Melchior von Tanningen was sure to know some castle or other where they could hide. For a moment the count had toyed with the notion of asking his influential father for help. But he would rather have cut off a finger than confess to the old man that he had been mistaken about Agnes.

  Friedrich bit his lower lip so hard that he raised tiny drops of blood on it. Although he had been unwilling to admit it at first, he had really loved the girl. Even more, he had revered her as one of those old minnesingers might have revered the lady of whom he sang. Agnes was pretty, yes, but that wasn’t it—a great many girls were pretty. Rather, it was her mixture of clever understanding and a passionately wild temper that had clouded his mind. Agnes was like a beast of prey that had to be tamed. In addition, she shared his passion for old times and the old stories. As a child, Friedrich had immersed himself in tales of knights and squires, and the bloodier the stories were, the better. He was crazy about legends of battles, treasures, and ancient mysteries. When, at the age of ten, he first heard of the Norman treasure, the greatest in Christendom, it was like he had been enchanted, and he had been under its spell ever since.

  And now it seemed he had lost both Agnes and the treasure.

  Friedrich ru
bbed his temples and tried to dispel the violent images that rose before his mind’s eye.

  I’ll flay that minstrel, I’ll flay him slowly. And I’ll make Agnes watch.

  Was the Norman treasure perhaps only a myth? All the sources he had studied indicated that some great secret lay buried at Trifels Castle. But what that secret was they did not say. Could those legends all be invented, like the tale of the sleeping Barbarossa? He had searched everywhere, in the castle itself, in the surrounding forest. He had even killed to eliminate anyone else who might know the secret.

  Had all that been for nothing?

  Friedrich was just about to go over to his large desk to study some old sheets of parchment when he heard a distant noise from the upper bailey.

  Annoyed, he went to the window and was opening the heavy wooden shutters when an arrow flew past, only a hand’s breadth away from him. It stuck in the tapestry on the other side of the room, its shaft quivering.

  What the devil?

  Alarmed, the count stood with his back against the wall, while the noise in the courtyard swelled. After some hesitation, he worked his way close enough to the window frame to venture a brief look outside.

  It was sheer chaos in the courtyard.

  Men-at-arms and landsknechts ran around, shouting. Some of the guards already lay twitching on the ground, while others had drawn their swords to fight. At first Friedrich thought that a few footpads had stormed the wall. But then he saw more and more men coming through an opening under the battlements. They were armed with boar spears, daggers, sickles, and small bows, and they were forcing the castle garrison farther and farther back under a hail of arrows. They came crawling out of the hole like a swarm of ants and flung themselves on the landsknechts, who had been taken by surprise. Only now did Friedrich realize who they were, and how they had made their way into the castle.

  By God, the insurgent peasants. And they know about the sally port and the old secret tunnel.