When Mathis finally put his head above the bushes, the sight he saw hit him like a blow.
Not far from the well tower, campfires were burning at regular intervals, with men in colorful clothes sitting around them, talking, laughing, and passing wine jugs around. There must be over fifty mercenaries. Many spears were driven into the ground. Among them Mathis saw several medium-weight guns, with piles of stone balls in front of them. Soldiers’ songs wafted through the air to the forest. No doubt about it, Trifels Castle was under siege.
“So Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck has decided to reclaim his castle after all,” said Melchior, who had crawled out of the brushwood with Mathis. “Look at that!”
He pointed to a banner rammed into the ground; it had a crowned lion rampant on it. Mathis knew that coat of arms from the siege of the Ramburg a year ago, and now he also saw the red and blue tent standing beside it. A slight figure was emerging from the tent at that very moment, barking out a few orders. The voice could be heard all the way to the outskirts of the forest, and it caught Mathis’s attention.
“Damn it all, that really is the count,” he whispered. “Now it will be twice as difficult to get into Trifels and look for any clues to the hiding place of the Holy Lance.”
“Twice as difficult, or maybe downright impossible,” replied Melchior, looking thoughtfully at the tent, weighing their chances. “We could have taken on a few peasants at a pinch, but a whole troop of landsknechts? These men don’t look as though this is their first siege.”
Mathis narrowed his eyes so as to make out more details in the firelight. Sure enough, all the landsknechts were armed with long daggers, spears, and short swords. He saw some long two-handed swords as well. The artillery also looked impressive. The besiegers had three falconets, a large culverin, and one of the large cannon known as nightingales, which fired balls of up to fifty pounds. The storming of the castle clearly had not begun yet, for Mathis saw several unfinished fieldworks near Trifels, but the smithy and several of the surrounding buildings had been burned down. He could only hope that his mother and sister had reached safety in time.
For a while, Mathis studied the little army camp in silence, and then he nodded firmly. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said quietly. “We can’t get into Trifels, and obviously Agnes can’t help us there. Thinking that dreams and childhood memories could tell us where to find the Holy Lance was a crazy idea anyway.” He shook his head. “Now I’m going to try to find my family to say goodbye to them, and then Agnes and I will be off somewhere else. I ought to have done that long ago.”
Melchior von Tanningen smiled ironically, but for the first time there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. “Throwing your ideals overboard so soon? Only a day ago, you were convinced that with the aid of the Holy Lance and Florian Geyer this war could yet be won. And suddenly all that’s worth nothing?”
“It was a mistake. I see that now.” Mathis stood up. “All I really want to win is Agnes.”
Without another word, he turned away and went back into the forest, pushing branches and twigs aside angrily and marching down the slope, not even looking to see whether Melchior was following him. Thoughts raced through his head like dark clouds in a hurricane. How had he let himself be carried away by the idea that an old lance was more important than the only girl he had ever loved? Agnes had positively begged for the two of them to go away together, but no, he had thought of nothing but his sublime ideals. He’d go down on his knees and beg her to forgive him.
With his head bent, Mathis went on through the forest. He had been walking for about half an hour when, suddenly, he heard a scream. It came from the very direction where he and Melchior had left Agnes.
Mathis felt his heart racing. He began to run as he heard another shrill scream. This time he was sure that it had been Agnes. He remembered how she had been dragged on board that boat in Albersweiler, and then disappeared into the darkness.
Oh God, not again. Please let me get to her this time before it’s too late.
Mathis was sorry now that he had set off in such a hurry, without Melchior von Tanningen. He could only hope that the minstrel was not too far behind him. He was going faster and faster. Several times he stumbled over roots and thorn bushes in the darkness, recovered himself, and ran on, until he could suddenly see two figures beyond the trees not far away. In the moonlight, they were bending over something that kicked and struck out like a captured animal.
“Agnes, Agnes!” cried Mathis, beside himself. Without another thought he ran toward the two men and flung himself on them. One of the pair, a sturdy peasant in a torn doublet, fell to the ground.
“What the devil?” he growled, but Mathis had already smashed both fists into his face. Whimpering and bleeding, the man lay there, while Mathis snatched up a stick from the ground and ran at the second peasant with it, shouting. For a moment the man hesitated, and then he turned and disappeared among the pines in the darkness.
Panting, Mathis turned to Agnes, who was cowering in a dip in the ground for protection and had her hands in front of her face. When he touched her, she flinched as if from a whiplash.
“It’s me, Agnes,” he said softly. “Everything will be all right. This time I reached you, this time . . .”
There was a crunching sound right behind him. Before Mathis could spin around, something hit him on the back of the head and a thousand stars exploded in his head.
He collapsed sideways like a felled tree. The last thing he saw was a dark outline rushing at him.
“Go to hell, traitor!” cried a voice.
Then a tied leather shoe hit him in the face.
Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck was sitting at table, a leg of wild boar larded with bacon in front of him, listening to the singing of the landsknechts outside his tent. He loved their warlike songs about wine, women, the lust to kill, and a short but satisfactory life. They were full of hatred, which was the strongest emotion he knew. He used his knife to cut the sinews of the meat while, with relish, he summoned up his latest memories.
His men had fallen on the counties of Löwenstein and Scharfeneck like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They had burned down half the houses in every village and hanged five men chosen by lot. The landsknechts had trampled down the fields with their horses and taken away the seed corn and the last cows as feudal dues, while the children and women screamed, flinging themselves to the ground and begging for mercy.
No mercy had been shown.
That sense of absolute power had allowed Friedrich to forget his anger with Agnes for a while. With every order he gave, with every blow or kick, Friedrich was also striking at his own father, who all his life had made him feel that he was the last in a long line of Scharfenecks, and not much was to be expected of him: a motherless boy who grew up surrounded by dusty books in which great men fought great battles.
Now he was fighting a battle of his own. He was no chivalrous hero, no King Arthur, but a rampaging avenger, and that was at least as good.
If not even better.
Lost in thought, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck carved up the leg of wild boar. He cut it smaller and smaller, until it was in tatters. Meanwhile he thought of what he would do to the peasants when he had finally recaptured Trifels. Yesterday he had taken back Scharfenberg Castle in short order. There had been few guards posted, and the state in which Friedrich had found his expensive furnishings and tapestries had not improved his temper.
Now was the time to take his revenge. His father had kept his word and given him fifty landsknechts and the artillery for another month. More than enough time to take Trifels, where he already knew the terrain only too well after searching for the Norman treasure. Tomorrow morning they would begin the attack. They would storm the makeshift castle gates, climb the low dilapidated walls on the east side with siege ladders, and then make short work of the peasants.
Friedrich would spare only Shepherd Jockel, their leader, for later. The hunchback woul
d have to pay for that brief but shameful moment of his flight from Trifels, and pay with a different sort of pain.
His fork scooped up a few more of the fibrous pieces of meat. Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck put one in his mouth and began to chew. Maybe he could contrive to keep some of the landsknechts on at Trifels as mercenaries. Then he could send out a punishment squad into the district from that base, a squad of which the peasants would tell tales for a long time to come. They would never rise against their masters again.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, Excellency.”
Annoyed, the count looked up from his meal and saw one of his deputies at the entrance to the tent. The man with the big nose had been a good bloodhound these last few weeks, but now there was a spark of something like fear in his eyes.
“What is it?” asked Friedrich curtly.
“You have a visitor, Excellency. A guest.”
“I don’t intend to receive guests today. The man would have to come from the emperor himself.”
The landsknecht cleared his throat. “Well, that’s it,” he hesitantly replied. “He does come from the emperor. There’s a letter and a seal to prove it. I think you . . . you should see him.”
“How dare you . . .”
At that moment a figure pushed past the guard and entered the tent. With a slight bow, the man finally stood in front of the count. When Friedrich recognized him, he didn’t know at first whether to have him broken on the wheel or offer his humble salutations.
Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck might be a little crazy, but he was not stupid.
He therefore decided on the latter course of action.
Mathis was awoken by a kick and a torrent of cold water. His head was still ringing from the blow that the peasant had struck him. With difficulty, he tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed up with something. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own congealed blood.
With a low groan, he passed his hand over his swollen face. At least he could now manage to peer through narrow slits and see where he was. Clearly he was in the Knights’ House at Trifels, its floor covered with dirty rushes. In the light of several torches and braziers, he vaguely saw about a dozen peasants standing around him in a circle, staring down at him. Agnes was nowhere to be seen, nor was Melchior. The minstrel had hopefully managed to disappear in the forest.
Someone was lounging in the background on a chair made of woven strips of willow, near the smoking hearth, but the man was too far off for Mathis to see him. Mathis tried to stand up, but he immediately collapsed again.
Where is Agnes? Where . . . ?
“Help that dog back on his feet and bring him here so that I can see his treacherous face.”
Hearing that cutting voice, Mathis knew at once who the man in the chair was. Two peasants seized him and dragged him over to the throne made of fur and willow on which Shepherd Jockel sat with his legs crossed.
“Well, well, so we meet again,” said the peasant leader, thoughtfully examining his dirty fingernails. “Homesick, were you?” Only now did he look into Mathis’s bloodshot eyes. “What did the count say to get you to show him secret passages into the castle, eh?”
“Where . . . is . . . Agnes?” Mathis gasped, without answering Jockel’s question. A glance out of the window showed him that it was still dark night. The campfires of the besiegers shone on the other side of the wall.
Shepherd Jockel raised his eyebrows. “The count’s whore? I’ve already had her thrown into the dungeon. You’re going there too, while I decide what to do with you. You traitor!” He jumped up and pointed at the stooped figure of Mathis, who still had to be held up by the two peasants. “This man left us to join the enemy,” he proclaimed. “He’s killed dozens of you, and now he’s come back to tell the count how to get into this castle.”
“That . . . that’s not . . . true.” Mathis began, but Shepherd Jockel kicked him in the stomach, so that he collapsed, groaning.
“Do you see what I do with traitors?” Jockel went on in a calmer voice. “I know there are some of us who want to give up. They don’t believe that victory is within reach. But I’ve sent for troops. It won’t be long now. Bands of peasants will soon be hurrying to our aid from all over the Palatinate, indeed all over the empire. This is Trifels, the center of the Holy Roman Empire! We’ll set out from here to the last battle, and we’ll yet win this war.”
“It’s . . . lost,” Mathis groaned.
Jockel, startled, looked at him. “What did you say?”
“The . . . war . . . is lost.”
For a while, the peasant leader seemed to be deprived of speech. Then, finally he struck out at Mathis like a man deranged.
“You accursed traitor,” he said furiously. “Sowing lies and discord. I distrusted you all along, and I was right. You were always on the side of the lords and masters. That little whore corrupted you. Tell me what the count is planning to do out there, or—”
“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Mathis managed to gasp. “By God, I really don’t know.” Jockel’s blows had struck him in the face, the stomach, and the loins. The pain was so savage that he was on the point of losing consciousness.
“The oath of a traitor.” Jockel looked around at a dozen or so peasants who watched the spectacle with a mixture of fright and obsequiousness. “Of course he knows. And I know how to get it out of him.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Bring the two of them in. We’ll celebrate a delightful reunion.”
Some of the peasants hurried out, and soon returned with two trembling figures whose heads were wrapped in cloth. Jockel snatched the ragged fabric away, and Mathis groaned aloud.
The two were his mother and his little sister, Marie.
They both looked reasonably well, although there were bruises on Martha Wielenbach’s face. Her skirt and bodice were torn, like someone had been pulling at her clothes. Marie’s face was red and swollen with tears, and her nose was running. She looked as though she had been crying for hours.
“Mathis!” his mother sobbed. “Dear Mathis, you’re alive! But for God’s sake, why—”
“Hold your tongue, woman,” Jockel barked. “So far we’ve treated the pair of you well. At least as well as anyone can treat the family of a traitor. You’ve had food and drink. But that could come to an end . . .”
He paused, and winked at Mathis.
“You always were a stubborn bastard, Mathis,” he went on, in an almost friendly tone. “Clever, but stubborn. So how am I to hurt you if you do nothing but keep your mouth shut or lie to me? I have a better idea.” He went over to little Marie, who was whimpering, and ran his hand through her matted hair. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to change your mind, Mathis. If you’re still as obstinate then, I’ll hang your little sister from the battlements until she’s black and blue in the face. Then it will be your mother’s turn, and you’ll have to watch her slowly choke to death.” He looked pityingly at Martha Wielenbach, who was weeping bitterly with her hands over her face. “I am afraid that war sometimes calls for cruel measures,” Jockel said pompously. “But those who want paradise on earth must walk through hell at times to get there.” He sat down on his throne again and snapped his fingers.
“Now, take this fellow away. I feel sick to my stomach at the sight of him.”
Agnes crouched deep down in the keep, staring at the darkness. The shivering fits that had been attacking her since she was captured had begun to die down now, but her breath still came fast and uneven. She had tried to weep, but her throat was constricted. Was this to be the end? Had she traveled so far only to die in the dungeon of her own castle?
Buried alive, like Constanza, she thought. Why did I come here?
Trying to take her mind off her predicament, Agnes massaged her joints and the place where her feet were bound. Her limbs hurt from being tied up by the peasants and then dragged through the undergrowth. With her and Mathis, who had been knocked unconscious, they had taken secret ways past the ranks of landsknechts and then,
finally, into the castle. Seeing one of the banners waving above the attackers’ camp, in the light of their campfires, she had been horrified to realize that it was under siege by her husband’s men. She had not seen Mathis since; she still did not know what the peasants were doing to him, or whether he was even alive.
Agnes closed her eyes and thought of the few happy moments they had spent with one another since their reunion in the army camp near Ingolstadt. It looked as if those moments were the end of their time together.
Above her there was a square stone shaft with a stone slab over the top of it. At a height of twelve feet, narrow strips of moonlight fell in through two slits in the east wall of the keep. Agnes remembered standing up above on the other side of those slits, more than a year ago, talking to Mathis through them. He had been imprisoned in this dark, dank hole for over two weeks. After only about an hour, she felt that her rib cage was constricted as if all the stones of the keep were weighing down on her. She also had a clammy sensation, a steady throbbing that could lead up to a fainting fit. On her brief visit to Mathis in here last year, she had felt the same, just as she had in Speyer Cathedral, when she and her father visited the corpulent merchant Jakob Gutknecht. Agnes shook herself to drive away the wave of faintness.
What in heaven’s name does this castle want from me?
All at once she heard a scraping noise up above, the stone slab was pushed aside, and the broad face of a peasant showed at the opening. He shone a torch down into the depths below.
The Castle of Kings Page 60