The Castle of Kings

by Oliver Pötzsch

  “It’s so damned unjust,” Mathis said angrily, striking the rail with his hand. “We ought to have won the war. How much longer will the poor have to suffer under the lash of their masters?”

  “Perhaps the peasants’ time simply has not yet come,” Agnes suggested. “Now that there are more and more books, more and more people will learn to read. They’ll find out a great deal that they don’t yet know, and then the nobility and gentry won’t find it so easy to lord over ordinary folk.”

  “Oh, come now, the great and powerful simply have better weapons and more skillful leaders, that’s all. If only we’d been better united, maybe under Florian Geyer, fighting for a common cause. We could have—”

  Mathis suddenly stopped and frowned, as he always did when he was thinking hard.

  “That lance,” he finally murmured. “Melchior said it could unite the princes. Why wouldn’t that hold true for the peasants as well?”

  Agnes looked at him imploringly. “Please, Mathis, don’t start along that line of argument again.”

  “No, listen to me. You say you don’t want to be the plaything of any kind of powers. That’s your right. But the lance makes a difference. It could be a strong symbol to unite the peasants. Suppose the knight Florian Geyer were to gather them together one last time. They would all follow him. A divine lance promising victory, a victory over injustice, over usury and serfdom, what greater symbol could there be?” Mathis had talked himself into a frenzy. “Agnes, please! Don’t think only of yourself, think of what you can achieve.” He grasped her shoulder. “Those dreams of yours. Didn’t they tell you anything about the whereabouts of the lance?”

  “I don’t know,” Agnes replied. “I do remember dreaming of their flight. Johann was carrying the child . . . and Constanza had a bundle of fabric with her . . .”

  “The lance was in it!” Mathis exclaimed. “I’m sure it was. Try to remember, Agnes. Did your mother say anything about where the two of them hid it?”

  “I was only five, Mathis, have you forgotten?” Bitterly, she turned away from him. “And anyway, didn’t I say I don’t want to hear any more about it? First you say you love me, and you don’t want to forge weapons anymore, and now you think of nothing but this lance.”

  “It’s not the lance itself, it’s justice I’m thinking of. Try to understand, Agnes. You may be the only one who can still change the course of this war. I’m only asking you to search your memory, that’s all.”

  Agnes hesitated. She felt like simply jumping into the water, diving into the cool current, and leaving everything behind her. But she could also understand Mathis to some extent. She, too, had seen much injustice and suffering during these last few months. Even if she didn’t think that a mere lance, however holy, could make any difference to that, she appreciated Mathis’s good intentions.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I’ll try to remember. But that’s all I can say. I can’t promise you anything.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I ask.” Mathis gave her a boyish smile and ran his hand through her hair, which, as so often, was already tousled. “Never forget that I love you, Agnes. Not as a figure from legend, the heiress of the Staufers, but as the stubborn girl I used to play hide-and-seek with in the castle cellars.”

  He pressed her hand, and she felt hot tears running down her cheeks.

  In spite of her hopes, however, her dreams did not return to her on either of the following two nights. Her sleep was sound and deep, and by day, the closer they came to Trifels, the more strongly she felt a strange uneasiness. She knew it was dangerous to seek out the place where her vengeful husband was, presumably, still set on retribution. On the other hand, she felt magically attracted to the castle itself. When the ship put in at the cathedral city of Speyer, which meant that they were just under thirty miles from Annweiler, Agnes knew that she must make up her mind.

  With Mathis beside her, she sat quietly on the pier in the river harbor, looking at the skyline of the city, dominated by the cathedral towers. Melchior had gone to buy provisions at one of the inns. So close to Trifels Castle, and thus within the sphere of influence of the Scharfenecks, they all three thought it too dangerous to risk being seen in the streets for longer than necessary.

  “I’ve been thinking a great deal about the two of us these last few days,” Mathis said at last. Hands clasped, he looked down into the black, stinking water of the harbor basin.

  “And?” Agnes prompted him. “What conclusion did you come to?”

  Silence reigned again, and only now did Agnes notice how quiet it was in this usually lively harbor quarter. She thought of her last visit to Speyer, just under a year ago, with her father. At that time, the self-confidence of the citizens had been almost palpable. Now there was a gloomy atmosphere; the people hurrying past kept their heads bent, as if they feared being taken away at any moment by the henchmen of the elector of the Palatinate or the bishop of Speyer.

  “Even if we don’t find the Holy Lance, I must go back to Trifels,” Mathis went on at last, sighing. “I won’t be able to stay long, while I’m still a wanted man. But I must at least see my mother and my little sister one last time. If they’re still alive,” he added gloomily. He looked at Agnes, waiting for her reaction. Suddenly he was once again like the little boy who was never quite sure of himself and whom she had loved so much when they were children.

  “Would you come with me?” he asked at last. “When all this is finished with, then . . . then we can go wherever you like. I promise.”

  Agnes compressed her lips. She was still at a loss to think where she could turn in these unsettled times, times when she had both lost and won so much. The only home she knew was Trifels Castle, but that was barred to her forever, and, unlike Mathis and Melchior, she had never learned a trade that would enable her to earn a living elsewhere.

  Except healing the sick, she thought. At least Father Tristan taught me how to tend the sick.

  “I don’t know, Mathis. It will be very dangerous for both of us to go back,” she began. “I have no family to say goodbye to. Maybe I’d do better to wait here for you.”

  “And then you’ll vanish again without a trace, and I’ll have to spend months searching for you?” Mathis smiled. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  Now Melchior von Tanningen appeared at the end of the quay, carrying some steaming pies and a jug of wine.

  “I’ve been finding out what I could in the town,” he said, already munching as he reached them. Sketching a bow, he handed Agnes one of the appetizingly fragrant pastries. “The area around Annweiler seems to be one of the last places where the peasants of the Palatinate are still holding out. Our old friend Shepherd Jockel is apparently still in charge there.”

  “And Trifels?” asked Agnes, so eager for news that she forgot to eat. “How about Trifels?”

  “It’s Jockel’s den. He rules the place with a strong hand—probably one reason why the peasants don’t dare to surrender. And one of the innkeepers told me that young Count Friedrich has fled to his father’s castle near Heilbronn. That sounds like he survived the storming of Scharfeneck Castle uninjured.”

  “Well, at least we’re rid of him, then,” said Mathis, hungrily eating his pie. “His lordship the count can stagnate in Heilbronn for all I care, so long as he doesn’t come back to the Wasgau.” He finished the pie, wiped his mouth, and looked expectantly at the others.

  “Well, what do you think?” he began. “The news could be worse. Maybe it will be possible to talk to Jockel and get inside the castle. After all, I was his deputy once . . .”

  “Forget it, Mathis!” Agnes snapped. “That man is crazy and he loves bloodshed. Were you thinking of giving him the Holy Lance if we find it?”

  “We? Can I believe my ears?” Melchior applauded enthusiastically. “Then you are still on our side, noble lady? That’s excellent!”

  “Wait, I . . . I didn’t say that,” replied Agnes. “I only meant—”

  “Your
dreams,” Mathis said. “Maybe they’ll come back as we get closer to Trifels. It could be that familiar scenes will help you to remember.” He took her hand. “We’ll never find the Holy Lance without you, Agnes. Constanza and Johann could have hidden it anywhere around the area. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Think of all the poor peasants we could help.” She still kept silent, and in the end he sighed deeply. “Very well, what do you think of this as a plan? We go close to Trifels, I try to find news of my mother and my sister, and if we’re still no farther along, we give up. Agreed? Then we will begin a new life, I promise you.”

  “Word of honor?”

  Mathis put his hand to his broad chest. “My word as a friend and as a man of honor.”

  “Then . . . yes. Agreed.”

  Agnes hesitantly nodded, and half an hour later they were taking their leave of the river boatmen and setting off together in the direction of Annweiler.

  But Agnes still feared that her return could be a terrible mistake. She felt as if she were on the rim of a whirlpool that was slowly but inexorably dragging her down into the depths.

  “I already miss the ship,” grumbled Mathis as they made their way through the forest on paths trodden by game animals. This was their second day since arriving at Speyer, and it was already quite late in the afternoon. They had avoided the few villages they passed, eating only the cold pies from the city and drinking water from the brooks. Mathis, cursing, swatted at the myriad mosquitoes whirring through the air. Burs and thorns from bramble bushes kept catching on his shirt. “I miss the wine, too,” he added. “The heat here’s enough to kill a man of thirst.”

  “I thought you never wanted to be a pampered nobleman?” Melchior replied with a smile. “Careful, because you’re beginning to act like one.”

  Mathis laughed. “Well, they say in your circles that clothes make the man, don’t they? Maybe it’s just as well that the thorns are tearing my new hose before I turn into a pot-bellied minstrel forever chattering away.”

  Agnes observed the two men who were so different, both of whom she had come to be so fond of, each in his own way. They came from different worlds, yet something linked them—a passion for life and complete commitment to their ideals. These were things that she lacked. And now they both wanted her to decide for one side or the other, the princes or the peasants.

  She couldn’t do it.

  The closer they came to Trifels Castle, the more feverish Agnes felt. The sultry air in the forest, the whine of mosquitoes, the soft marshy woodland floor that made walking difficult, it all made her terribly tired. Even as a child she had felt, at times, that Trifels itself was calling to her. And now, once again, she heard an inner voice. But it did not, as in the past, sound friendly and soothing. It frightened her.

  Welcome, Agnes. I have missed you. Where have you been for so long?

  Soon after they passed Annweiler, when the glowing red globe of the sun had just sunk over the city, her exhaustion was so great that she could not go on.

  “I think I’ll have to lie down for a little while,” she said. Her legs suddenly felt as soft as wax. She just managed to sit down on the ground before everything went black before her eyes.

  Welcome, Agnes . . .

  She shook herself, and the blackness went away.

  “Are you all right?” asked Mathis, concerned. “Do you feel feverish?”

  Agnes breathed deeply. “No, no. It’s just all been rather too much for me today.” She smiled encouragingly at the two men. “Suppose I rest for a little while, and you two go on to scout out Trifels? I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. And by then, maybe I’ll have remembered something.”

  Mathis frowned. “You think we should leave you here on your own? I don’t know about that . . .”

  “Think of the dreams, Master Wielenbach,” the minstrel said. “We want the lady to dream, don’t we? And fevered dreams can be particularly graphic. A little sleep won’t harm her, either. It’s been a long walk today.”

  “Very well,” said Mathis, still unsure. “We’ll be back in two hours’ time at the latest. But don’t move from here, understand?”

  “Yes, my big, strong man.” In spite of her weariness, Agnes managed to smile. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

  Mathis nodded, and soon he and Melchior von Tanningen had disappeared into the forest ahead.

  For a little while Agnes could hear the twigs cracking under their feet, and then there was no sound but the birds twittering in the evening twilight. She closed her eyes. A sense of peace pervaded her body, and almost at once she fell into a deep, leaden slumber.

  ✦ ✦ ✦

  A stone chamber like the inside of a cube. A constant flickering illuminates the room, but only faintly. It comes from a single lighted candle end propped on a stone. Beeswax drips to the floor, hissing, and a sorrowful voice echoes through the walls, singing the old Occitanian lullaby.

  Coindeta sui, si cum n’ai greu cossire . . .

  It takes Agnes a little while to realize that she herself is the singer. She is standing in front of one of the walls with a piece of charcoal in her hand, using it to draw a picture on the rock. It is too dark to see anymore. Agnes knows only that she can use three colors. Those are all she has.

  Black charcoal. Green moss. Red blood.

  She found the charcoal on the floor of her dungeon, and the slippery moss comes from the niche beside the opening, where she saw the sun for the last time.

  The blood is her own.

  A wave of unspeakable agony goes through her body, as if only now has she become aware of what has happened to her. The pain is so strong that it takes her breath away. They burned her breasts with red-hot pincers, they dislocated her left arm on the rack, they drove nails into her flesh, and they pulled out several of her fingernails.

  But she said nothing.

  Now she sings quietly. Sometimes a whimper of complaint comes from her vocal cords, which are exhausted by all her screaming. She goes on painting her picture with the bleeding stumps of her hands, while the pain crawls back into its lair again. It makes way for other sensations, and they are almost as strong.

  Hunger and thirst.

  Agnes’s lips are cracked, her tongue is a thick, swollen lump in her mouth, her stomach a yawning, endlessly deep hole.

  She is so exhausted that sometimes she leans against the wall and drops off to sleep for a few moments. But she must not fall over, must not really sleep yet, she must go on painting before the last candle has burned down.

  She did not betray her child. Neither the child nor the lance. That is all that matters. The Hohenstaufen line will not die out. And she has given her son the ring and the deed that, between them, will make him the rightful ruler of the empire someday. The Holy Lance will help him to put their joint enemies to flight once and for all. With the lance, they will scatter the armies of the Habsburgs like dust in the wind.

  The family of tanners taking care of the boy knows the words. The words that reveal the hiding place of the Holy Lance. They will tell him where it is when he is old enough to understand.

  The place where enmity is no more.

  Humming quietly, Agnes goes on with her picture. It gives her strength and consolation. The picture shows the place where enmity is no more. She repeats that phrase again and again, like a quiet prayer.

  As she adds the final stroke with her bleeding hand, the last colored line, the candle goes out. Forever.

  ✦ ✦ ✦

  Agnes cried out and opened her eyes. All was black around her. For an endless moment she thought that she was still in that eerie tomb. Had she been walled up alive? But then she heard the quiet sounds of the forest, she felt the familiar prickle of pine needles under her shoulders, and suddenly she knew where she was again.

  She was close to Trifels Castle, and she had been dreaming.

  The dream had been as graphic as her dreams in the castle last year. Once again she had been Constanza, but this time she had shared the Stau
fer descendant’s final moments. Agnes cautiously stretched her hands, almost expecting that they would still hurt from the torture. What pain the woman must have suffered. What a dreadful, lonely death, walled up somewhere in Trifels Castle. The strange phrase that Constanza had kept murmuring was still going through her own head.

  The place where enmity is no more.

  Had Constanza already, in her imagination, been in paradise? Or had she really been describing the hiding place of the Holy Lance?

  Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear the footsteps until they were very close. Joyfully, she got to her feet.

  “Mathis? Melchior?” she whispered. “Is that you? I’ve—”

  Rough hands pushed a couple of branches aside, and Agnes stopped short in shock. A broad-shouldered peasant, with a dripping nose and popping eyes, was staring down at her as though she were some strange bird.

  “Ho, so I was right after all,” he muttered. “It was a scream we heard just now.”

  Then the peasant turned around. “Joseph, Andreas, Simon!” he bellowed, and to Agnes his voice was like a slap square in her face. “Come see the pretty thing I’ve found. Won’t Jockel be surprised.”

  With Melchior von Tanningen, Mathis was stealing through the brushwood on the sloping ground below Trifels Castle. They had decided to approach it from the north side, where the slope was steepest and therefore not so well guarded.

  Cautiously, Mathis made his way through the undergrowth where he and Agnes used to play as children. Trifels Castle was very close now. He could already see the staterooms through the leaves, with lights flickering in some of the holes that had been windows. All at once Mathis felt strong nostalgia for the place where he had spent his childhood. He thought of his dead father, but also of his mother and his sister, Marie, who would be nine now. Their poor little house was only a stone’s throw away. He had such a strong wish simply to go straight to them, to see whether they were all right. But the danger of being found by Jockel’s men was too great. First they must find out how the land lay, especially as Mathis could hear voices and laughter quite close. He got down on the ground, with its smell of pine needles and damp earth, and crawled the last few yards to the place where the forest came to an end, meeting the broad road that led up to the castle. Beside him, Melchior did the same.