This morning, Melchior had talked to the crew of the barge and found out that they would reach the monastery in the afternoon. Agnes still did not know what she hoped to find there. But she felt that she must make this journey if she was ever to sleep easily again, without those dreams—and she was glad to have the company of Melchior and Mathis. Mathis in particular had been very solicitous over these last few days. Agnes had not told him anything about those dreadful nights with Barnabas, but he seemed to sense that something deep within her had been injured and would only heal slowly. Since their flight from the army camp, he had kissed and embraced her a few times, but when he noticed that she froze in his arms, he quickly ceased his gentle approaches. It would take much longer for her to feel at ease with a man again, if she ever did. The memory of what Barnabas had done to her was too horrible.
For that alone the bastard deserved to die, she thought grimly.
Gently, Agnes stroked the scratched engraving on the signet ring, which she was now wearing on her finger again. For the hundredth time, she traced the lines that made up the portrait of a bearded king. So much blood had already been shed because of this ring. It was a curse and a blessing at once. Agnes nodded firmly. It was high time for her to find out more about its past.
About its past and mine, too . . .
Suddenly she heard the clear sound of a bell ringing three times from the stern of the barge, and the boatmen fell on their knees and began praying out loud. Agnes came back from her thoughts with a start.
“What’s the matter with the men?” she asked Melchior uncertainly. “Has there been an accident?”
“They’re praying not to have one,” the minstrel replied, pointing to a tall slate crag rising high above the right-hand bank of the Rhine. They were slowly approaching it. “The country people here call that rock the Loreley. The river narrows here, and there are a number of whirlpools and currents. The most dangerous spot is right ahead of us. Many ferrymen and passengers have been dragged down to the river bottom by the swirling water.” With a slight movement of his head, Melchior indicated the boatmen, who seemed to be looking apprehensively at the three passengers even as they prayed. “They’re probably expecting us to pray as well, so let’s do as they want.”
“It can’t hurt, anyway,” said Agnes, kneeling down. After a moment’s hesitation, Mathis and Melchior imitated her.
As the rock passed by, a mighty rushing sound was heard, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Uncertainly, Mathis looked up at the steep slopes, from which small stones tumbled.
“Never fear,” Melchior reassured him. “What you can hear is only the multiple echoes of the Galgenbach waterfall. But the locals think it’s the sound of dwarfs digging for gold in their caves.” He sighed. “I’ve been thinking for some time of writing a pretty ballad about this part of the country. Maybe with a water spirit in it, or an enchantress who lures men to their death . . .”
A shudder suddenly ran through the barge, and the three travelers, taken by surprise, clung to the casks of wine that were strapped firmly to the deck to keep from falling. The boatmen stopped praying, shouted, and ran to the bows. Agnes saw a huge dead tree drifting in the water directly next to the boat. It was an oak, over thirty feet long, with flotsam and jetsam caught in its crown. The tree trunk grated as it scraped along the port side of the barge, but the vessel held.
Looking down at the water again, Agnes saw two drowned men among the branches of the oak. A frayed rope floated after one of them. Both bodies were so bloated that they hardly resembled human beings but were more like swollen flour sacks. To judge by their ragged clothing, they were simple peasants.
“Poor devils,” murmured Mathis. “I guess they were hanged very close to the Rhine as a warning to anyone coming up the river, and then a storm washed them into the water.”
“Where they nearly dragged a few more mortals down into the abyss after them,” said Agnes quietly. “God have mercy on their souls.” She made the sign of the cross, while the oak with its terrible freight rocked in the water as it slowly moved out of their sight.
The rushing of the waterfall was not so loud now, but more and more whirlpools, crowned by white foam, showed on the surface of the Rhine, and a sandbar emerged from the water like the back of a gigantic fish. Sweat stood out on the brow of the boatman in the stern as he steered the barge now to the right, then to the left again, to escape the dangerous rapids and the sandbar. Agnes held her breath. The river, a swift torrent now, wound its way through the deep rocky fissures, and shadows on the banks reached out long fingers to the vessel as it bobbed like a nutshell through the many currents.
“Maybe I should have prayed louder,” said Mathis, clinging to the rail convulsively. He looked pale, and the movement of the barge obviously did not agree with him. Trees and uprooted bushes floated past and disappeared in the seething whirlpools.
At last, after what felt like an age, they left the Loreley rock behind them, the sun came out, and the Rhine flowed on at its usual slow pace. Everything was suddenly so peaceful that the last few minutes seemed to Agnes unreal. Green vineyards stretched over the terraces of the river valley, and a pretty little town with a small castle towering above it came into view on the right-hand bank. There was another town on the left bank as well, with a red and white church. A strong castle, surrounded by fortified walls, stood above this town, with colorful banners fluttering from its freshly plastered battlements. It was the most beautiful castle that Agnes had ever seen; Trifels was like a rough-hewn rock by comparison.
“Ah, St. Goar!” said Melchior in relief. “So we have reached our destination.”
Agnes looked at him in surprise. “You mean that castle is St. Goar?”
Melchior laughed. “No, no. That is Rheinfels Castle, the largest castle on the Rhine, owned by the landgrave of Hesse. I once spent several weeks here, entertaining the landgrave with my music. St. Goar is the town with the church at its center, over there.”
“But I always thought we were looking for a monastery, not—”
Agnes stopped when she looked at the church in the middle of the town again. Only now did she notice other buildings annexed to its north and south sides, obviously part of a monastic complex of considerable size.
“You’re looking at the famous monastery of Benedictine canons in St. Goar. It belongs to the powerful Benedictine abbey of Prüm,” Melchior explained. “The landgrave of Hesse has always been much annoyed that the canons pay him no taxes. For centuries, the holy fathers have owed allegiance to the emperor alone, and they are very influential.”
Agnes thoughtfully scrutinized the attractive church. After so many months of privations, she had finally reached the place where she hoped to find answers. But she did not feel the sense of real joy that she had expected.
“I don’t know,” she murmured. “I . . . I’d expected a lonely monastery, maybe on top of a mountain, or in a deep, shady valley. A mysterious building full of secrets, like Trifels Castle. But this is only a town church.” She turned to Melchior. “Are you sure this is the right St. Goar? Maybe Father Tristan meant some other place.”
The minstrel shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the only St. Goar I know, anyway. And you’re not doing the church justice. The bones of St. Goar himself are kept there, and pilgrims come from far and wide to touch his coffin.”
“One way or another, we ought to see the church,” said Mathis, who had a little color back in his face by now. “Seems like we’ll have to stay here for a while.” He pointed to the Rhine, which had a heavy chain stretched across it at this point, forcing the boatmen to steer the barge into the little river harbor below the castle. “And I didn’t come hundreds of miles merely to turn around again. Particularly as I don’t know where I’d go,” he added quietly a moment later.
“You’re both right.” Agnes nodded, her mind made up. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I’m a little confused. And I can’t thank you enough for coming all this long way with me.”
Like many other towns in the Rhine valley, St. Goar was shaped like a narrow tunnel wedged between the river and the steep slopes above it. A high wall, with fortified towers along its length, protected the town from attack. Passing through the harbor gateway, the three travelers soon found themselves approaching the monastery complex in the middle of the town. Citizens clad in colorful fabrics strolled down the paved streets, laughing and talking. A small castle beyond the church was clearly the local mayor’s residence. The attractive half-timbered houses, the plastered town wall, and the taverns doing a good trade all gave Agnes an impression of prosperity. Evidently the town did pretty well out of the income from the river toll. She suddenly thought of the shabby town of Annweiler at home.
Did our town once look like this? Back in the time of the Staufers?
“Black Hans may have been a robber knight,” muttered Mathis, “but the men who run the river traffic here are no better. Squeezing the last of their money out of travelers, and dressing in velvet and good linen.”
“I wouldn’t mind a silk gown myself,” Agnes retorted. She sighed, looking down at her plain coat. “Fine fabrics like that are much more comfortable to wear than these coarse, dusty men’s clothes.”
Mathis grinned. “Now you know what we poor men have to put up with every day.”
Soon they reached the market square in front of the monastery church. On their right was the attractive town hall. A linden tree stood in the middle of the square, and there was an empty pillory smeared with dirt and rotten fruit beside it. Only now that they had reached the monastery complex did Agnes see how large it was. From the church itself, roofed cloisters stretched both left and right to the neighboring buildings, one of which she supposed housed the monks. Scaffolding stood along the facades of the buildings, showing that more construction work was in progress. Workmen stood on ladders, repainting walls, while farther off two monks were carrying a man on a stretcher into one of the buildings.
“The pilgrims’ hospital at St. Goar is famous all along the Rhine,” said Melchior, as his eyes moved appreciatively over the various buildings. “They’re obviously still extending this place. At least, the nave of the church looks to be new. An interesting building, so tall and light. I know a church in Rome that—”
“That’s nice for you,” Mathis interrupted, “but we’re not here to admire churches. We’ve come to track down a mystery. So let’s go straight in and see if we can find someone to help us.” He walked across the market square and opened the low church door, which swung inward, squealing.
Agnes shivered as she entered the church. After the heat of the day, it was surprisingly cool in here. Little light came in through the ornate stained-glass windows, so that the nave of the church was immersed in an almost eerie dusk. A freshly plastered gallery ran around it, about twelve feet above the floor, with its canopy supported on joists and skillfully ornamented with the likenesses of several saints. From the apse at the east end, steps led down, and a steady brushing sound came from the bottom of them. When the three approached the steps, they saw a crypt borne up on columns, containing a sarcophagus on a plinth. An old monk in the plain habit of the Benedictines was sweeping the floor in front of it.
“The tomb of St. Goar,” Melchior whispered. “A very holy place, and we should not omit to see it. Let us take a quick look.” He signaled to the others to follow him. Then he climbed down the few steps and cleared his throat when he reached the monk.
“Dominus vobiscum,” murmured the old man, still sweeping. His hood was drawn far down over his face.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” replied Melchior. “Good Father, forgive us for disturbing you. We have come on a long journey to visit this place.”
For the first time, the monk stopped sweeping the floor and looked up. Two friendly, clever eyes shone under the hood, looking almost too young in his wrinkled face. His most striking features were his bushy eyebrows, which resembled two lively hairy caterpillars. He smiled mildly.
“Then you are in luck,” the monk said. “The crypt is technically closed today, because we are preparing for the festivities on the day of St. Goar.” He sighed. “But I suppose I forgot to lock the church door again, and, since you are here . . .” He made a gesture of welcome toward the tomb, crowned by a heavy stone slab. “By all means pay the saint your respects. I hope it will not take too long.”
Agnes looked at the slab, on which the stone figure of a monk stood out in relief.
“Is that St. Goar?” she asked.
The old man nodded. “He came to these parts when the Romans were slowly retreating before the stormy advance of other peoples. He is believed to have saved many ships from being wrecked in the Rhine. In addition, the saint brought vines with him from his home of Aquitaine, to make wine in the Palatinate.” He smiled mischievously. “Not the least of his good deeds, even if Goar himself was a hermit, and probably preferred the clear water of the Rhine. The crypt here stands on the site of his cave. When he died, his successors built a little church over it, then a larger one.”
Mathis, standing beside Agnes, cleared his throat. “Forgive us, Father. This is all very interesting. But we are in search of someone who can help us in an extremely important matter.”
“In fact, it would be helpful to speak to the head of this monastery,” said Melchior. “Do you by any chance know where we can find the dean?”
“The dean?” The old monk raised his bushy eyebrows. “And why, may I ask, are you looking for him?”
“We have come a long way, Father,” Agnes intervened. “My former father confessor told me that here, in St. Goar, I might find the answer to a question that has been weighing on my mind for a long time.”
The monk laughed softly. “Many are seeking answers to their questions,” he said at last, “yet the one true answer is always the same: God. There was no need for you to come to St. Goar for that.”
Mathis shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. “Listen, Father, this lady is Countess von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck, and the two of us have been accompanying her on a long, laborious search that has brought us to St. Goar.” He pointed to Melchior and himself. “Melchior von Tanningen is a traveling knight, and I am a simple weaponsmith. We have come together from Trifels Castle in the Palatinate, far to the south of this place, and . . .”
Suddenly the old man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Trifels?” he said suspiciously. “Did that strange man send you, I wonder? If so, your journey has been in vain. I have not changed my mind.”
“What strange man?” asked Agnes. “Did he want to know something about Trifels too? Please tell me.”
But the old man went on sweeping the floor around the altar in silence.
“Good Father,” said Melchior, trying his luck. “This matter is really of the utmost importance . . .”
“Yes, that’s what the man said as well. And I still say no.”
“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” Mathis suddenly exclaimed, loud enough to make the walls of the deserted crypt echo. “We’ve withstood so many dangers, we’ve fought so many battles, we’ve come across devastated country and nearly lost our lives, just to reach this distant place. And there you stand, as silent as an ox. Tell us where the dean is. Then he can decide what may be said and what may not. So now talk, or else . . .”
He took a menacing step toward the monk, but Agnes held him back. “No, Mathis,” she said. “You’re committing a sin.”
Without more thought, she fell on her knees before the old man, folding her hands as if in prayer.
“I beg you, Father,” she pleaded. “I swear by all the saints that we com
e with good intentions. All we want is . . .”
Agnes stopped, seeing the old man’s eyes suddenly fixed on her hands. A ray of sun had just found its way through one of the tiny windows in the vaulted roof above, lighting up the young mistress of Trifels Castle as though she were surrounded by a saint’s aureole.
The ring glittered on her finger.
“Barbarossa’s ring,” the monk whispered. He put back his hood and bent to look at the jewel more closely. “Holy Mother of God. The prophesy was right. It really has returned to us. That changes everything.”
All at once there was a strange silence in the old church, while the monk examined the ring. Finally, Mathis cleared his throat.
“You . . . you know this ring?” he asked.
The old man did not reply. Only after a while did he look at Mathis as though he had just awoken from a dream.
“Of course I know it,” he replied. “It was described to me in detail not long ago.” His glance moved down to Agnes, whom he studied thoughtfully. “The ring, but not its wearer. I would never have expected to see them both myself, and so soon. These must be terrible times indeed.” Briefly, the old man looked at Mathis and Melchior, before he turned back to Agnes. “Are these your companions, and can you trust them?”
“If I can’t trust them, I can trust no one,” Agnes answered, confused. “But why . . .”
“Then they shall be told the secret as well. You will need all the protection you can get.”
“Wonderful!” Melchior von Tanningen clapped. “Then this story will be cleared up at last, and my ballad can have an ending worthy of it.” The minstrel looked searchingly around. “Forgive me, but could you please take us to your dean, and quickly.”
The Castle of Kings Page 54