by Simon Morden
“My lady,” said the woman. She was younger than Sophia, with a strong face and bright eyes.
“You’ve someone among the soldiers?” asked Sophia.
“My brother. He carries a spear, and hopefully knows how to use it too.” She frowned. “Can I do something for you, my lady?”
She had no qualms about being direct. Some would bow and stutter, and rather than finding it amusing, Sophia would be sad since she was only Aaron Morgenstern’s girl from Jews’ Alley, and no better or worse than anyone else.
“You can tell me your name, Mistress.”
“Aelinn, my lady. Maid to the Odenwalds, in the main square.”
She knew the Odenwalds. Not great readers. “If I said ‘Max Ullmann’ to you, would you know what it was I wanted to talk to you about?”
Now Aelinn looked anywhere but Sophia. “Whatever my lady wants to discuss.”
“Walk with me, then,” said Sophia.
“My lady, I’d … the Black Company are everywhere. If I’m seen with you, Max will want to know what we talked about.”
“Not through the town then. Outside the walls. Up the hill and into the woods, where there’s no one to spy on us.” She didn’t want to take no for an answer, but she couldn’t force Aelinn to come with her. Or rather she could, but it was doubtful she’d hear the truth if she did.
“I have to be back to prepare lunch,” the woman said, then finally nodded.
Sophia, in her stiff skirts and tight bodice, found the climb difficult. The path was narrow and not often used, while summer’s growth pressed in around her. Her own maid would look later at the ticks and catches in the fine cloth and despair.
Even though they were quickly hidden, Sophia had the urge to keep climbing, and Aelinn dutifully followed. Near the top was a clearing, bright with sunlight and flowers, and a fallen tree made a good bench. She sat down, facing the sun, and Aelinn sat hesitantly next to her.
“My lady,” she started.
“You’re allowed to call me Sophia. Or Mistress Morgenstern if you feel you absolutely have to.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
This wasn’t going well. “Aelinn, you’re not in trouble. No one’s hauling you off to the Hare Tower. I – both me and Felix – want to know why Master Ullmann hasn’t mentioned you to us at all. We’re going to ask him, of course, but seeing you today, I thought I’d ask you first. You are …” – and she realised she didn’t have the language for it; German etiquette was very different to Jewish – “seeing each other?”
“We see each other often, Mistress.” She looked at her shoes. “I don’t think that’s what you mean, though.”
“Do you take him into your bed?”
“Yes, Mistress. And I go into his, too.”
“You saved him from a beating and worse at the hands of the Simbach spies. That was, what: three, four months ago? And you’ve been seeing him since?”
“Yes, Mistress.” She swallowed. She knew what question was coming next, and so did Sophia. She was going to ask it anyway.
“You haven’t got two heads, Aelinn. Why hasn’t he asked to marry you?”
She stayed silent for a while, then gave a little grunt. “He has. More than once.”
“But you said no. And you keep on saying no.” Sophia laced her fingers in front of her and squeezed her hands together. They were callused. They’d always been callused, but now the calluses were in different places than previously from horse-riding and sword-fighting. “Why? You don’t have to answer, but I am interested.”
Aelinn was quiet again. “Mistress, it’s not that I don’t love him. I do: he’s funny, and clever, and kind. He treats me right, never a harsh word, and he’s a good-looking boy, too. Strong, and brave with it. And some men only think about themselves, in and out of bed, but he’s not like that.”
“He sounds perfect, Aelinn. He’s very diligent in his work, as well; always looking ahead to see what needs to be done, rather than simply reacting to events. The palatinate is very lucky to have someone like him as a prince’s man.” Sophia cracked her knuckles. The noise startled her, and she put her hands firmly down by her side. “Is it what he does for the prince that’s putting you off?”
“No, not at all. He’s even suggested to me that I should become a spy too. I have my wilder moments, but I’m not a very good liar. A spy for the prince needs to be that.”
“Yes, you’re right. But not to his prince. So, is it your parents?” Sophia knew that there was very little in law or custom that that might mean a girl’s father could reasonably object to a marriage, above the weight of his words.
“It’s not that.” Aelinn put her head back and groaned at the sky. “My mother told me never to marry a man who didn’t sleep well at night.”
Sophia almost fell off the tree-trunk. “That … is a strange reason.”
“Yes,” said Aelinn pointedly. “I know. But that was what she said when I was young, and it’s stayed with me. Max, he doesn’t sleep well at all.”
“Is it that he doesn’t sleep, or that he does?”
“He sleeps, and he dreams. They’re not good dreams, Mistress. If there was still magic, I’d call him hag-ridden and have him make sacrifices at the irminsul in order to drive it off.” Aelinn lowered her head. “He moans and talks, and then, just before he wakes, he screams. It’s…”
“Disconcerting?”
“More than that. I calm and comfort him, but he’s scared to death in those first few moments. He clings to me. Then it’s over, and he’s back to his normal self again.” She turned to Sophia. “It’s not all the time, but it’s often enough that I wonder what he saw, what he did, to give himself such terrors. He won’t talk about it to me, denies he ever has them. Do you see, Mistress, why I won’t consent to the handfasting?”
“Yes, I see. And I’m sorry I ever intruded. This isn’t really anything to do with me: I thought I might help Felix, but all I’ve done is embarrass you.”
“No, no, Mistress. It’s a relief to finally tell someone. Even if it is the prince’s consort.” She made a face that suggested she wished it had been anyone else but her.
“What does he cry out?” Sophia blurted out. “What’s he so afraid of?”
“Fire, Mistress. It’s always fire.” Aelinn shrugged. “I don’t know why, because he hasn’t got a mark on his body except for a few tiny ones on his chest, and he’s not scared of flames in the hearth.”
“Just in his dreams,” Sophia said. She picked at the bark beneath her fingers. It peeled off easily in thick flakes, and beneath were a myriad of tiny crawling creatures. “These marks…”
“Just little silvery patches of skin. I asked about them, but he said he’d been born with them. Five there are, one for each finger.” She stopped and blushed deeply.
“I’ve kept you long enough, Aelinn. You should go, before anyone misses you. And if, at any point, you want Master Ullmann to leave you alone, I find myself not without influence.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“That goes for any of the prince’s men, or any of mine, for that matter. I won’t have them abusing their positions for any reason. One last thing: can you read, Aelinn?”
“A little,” she said, pushing herself up and away from the tree-trunk. “Enough to tell who a message is meant for.”
“You should learn. Master Thaler’s school shouldn’t be just for the children.”
“Perhaps, Mistress.” Aelinn batted at her clothes to remove most of the lichen and wood fragments. “I’ll be off, with your permission.”
“You’re freer than I am, and you don’t need my permission.” All the same, she nodded at the maid, and watched her leave the clearing, early summer seed-heads clinging to the swish of her skirt.
Their words concerning marriage set Sophia thinking about the possibility of her own, and the complications that might arise.
When – if – she and Felix married, and no matter what tradition said about his age, he was still a boy,
their children would be Jews. So said the Mishnah. And she would raise them as Jews, meaning that, in time, a Jewish boy would inherit the throne of Carinthia. And then, this Jewish boy, this son of hers, would look down from the fortress wall, as she had so often done, and see the tops of the circle of trees in the town square, and the irminsul rising at their centre.
What would he do? Would he tolerate these northern gods, and bow his head to them as necessary? Or would he have the trees and the pole cut down and burnt, and in their place build a temple of white stone and a gold roof to rival Solomon’s?
Would her own people accept him, or reject him as a mamzer? He could end up hated by both the Germans and the Jews.
It might be better for everyone if she simply slipped away in a year or two’s time to somewhere well outside of Carinthia’s reach and Felix’s ability to call her back. Alexandria even, where there were both Jews and a library.
A Jewish queen anywhere was an anomaly. A Jewish prince anywhere but Jerusalem was unthinkable, and the Byzantines, Egyptians and Persians seemed to take it in turns to stir the rubble of that great city on a yearly basis.
Better that Felix should wed someone like Aelinn than someone like her. Doctor Kuppenheim was right: she should find some nice Jewish boy. Except, except.
And then she remembered what it was that had been bothering her all the while she’d been descending into self-doubt and pity. She had an idea where Max Ullmann might have encountered fire strong enough to breed such fear.
83
“We should still destroy the bridge,” said Reinhardt.
“But your plan requires that it remains standing so that we can retreat across it.” Büber leant on his shovel for a moment’s rest, while those around him dug and threw, dug and threw, in time to the slowed-down chorus of “The Rheinmaid’s Daughter”.
When they’d started that morning, they’d sung lustily and wielded their spades enthusiastically, but, despite regular breaks and a long rest at midday, they now worked with a dull monotony that spoke of exhaustion.
He turned back to his part of the earthwork. The task was simple enough: dig a ditch and use the soil as a rampart. The deeper the ditch, the higher the rise, which was why he was standing ankle-deep in a pool of water. It hadn’t rained for two, three weeks, but this close to the river, the ground below was saturated.
On the finished part of the wall, men were tamping the lee side of the earth ridge with planks. They stamped in time with the singing, their weary feet driving the tune slower with each repeat.
Büber dug down into the watery sludge, loosened the soil, then flung it at the crest. Some of it ran down again, splashing in the puddle. The rampart was as high as it was going to go, and it was time to move on; he found another place in the line, close to the crag of Kufstein itself.
The ground here was untouched. He looked across to his left to make sure of his mark. Then, he put his boot on the shovel, and turned the first sod.
The singing was a necessary distraction, but he could have done without the talking. Everyone knew what needed to be done that day. Perhaps tomorrow, they’d do something different – make stakes and build walls of stone. The day after that, there’d be more digging for certain.
Reinhardt followed him up the ditch. His shovel was barely used, his boots free of sticky mud and trampled grass.
“If you’ve come to bend my ear again, direct some of that effort into spadework. If you’ve breath enough to talk, at least dig at the same time.” Büber fell into the rhythm: thrust, lift, throw, return.
“We’re done with that, Peter. You’re as stubborn as the mountains themselves.” Reinhardt plunged his shovel into the soft ground. “Just tell me that you’ll keep the bridge in mind, if it comes to it.”
“I don’t know why Felix decided to put me in charge all of a sudden; just that he did. It’s not as if I know more about battles than you do.” There was rock a spade-length down, and Büber’s foot now ached with the jarring impact. He took a step back to dig a fresh patch of earth. “But it was your plan we agreed on, and it’s a little late to change it now. We’ve more than enough work for all of us.”
There was. While a century toiled east of the river, there was another on the west, digging across from the hill that the locals called Zellerberg towards the valley-side. The ground was marshy there, and the ditch was forming quickly. The embankment was more disappointing, but it couldn’t be helped: the men building it were amateurs, and had no expectation of being fêted for their siegeworks. Another group was piling stones on top of each other at the top of the col, making a barrier that they could use both to hide behind and to sortie from.
On Kufstein itself, walls were being built up and rammed with earth. The Romans had built defences here, but they were a thousand years in their graves, and the tower was now little more than a ring of soil on top of an isolated rock. There was no time to build a new stone structure, but the crag still managed to dominate the bridge crossing, and importantly it was within bow-shot of it.
The picket line up near the Ziller hadn’t seen any dwarves beyond their valley-spanning fence. Büber’s scouts patrolling the neighbouring peaks reported there’d been no attempts at infiltrating. It seemed the height of arrogance, over-confidence and complacency for the dwarves not to have at least tried to see what the humans were up to. Yet their very failure to do so concerned Büber more than if there’d been a flood of spies.
He worked himself hard, on the premise that men far younger and with more fingers than him would be shamed into putting in as much effort. He grew tired and sore and sweaty and dirty. He forgot, for a while.
The sun slid around in the sky, and as it dipped below the first distant mountain peak, he called for the horn to sound. There was plenty of daylight left, but there were tents to pitch, firewood to gather and meals to cook. And gods, his bones ached.
Upstream of Kufstein was a sandbank, where the Weissach joined the Enn, and Büber made his way there, pulling off his clothing as he walked. By the time he reached the grey shingle slope, he had only his breeks left on. He dropped his boots and waded in, still holding his shirt and necker. The water was cold, though not cold enough to take toes as it had been in spring. When he’d reached waist-deep, he ducked down and let the water flow over and through him.
He opened his eyes. Everything was green and glassy. Light flashed bright on the surface above his head, and the riverbed as dappled as a forest floor. Silver fish scattered from him like birds, and fronds of weed danced in the wind above.
He rose with a shout, and started back to shore.
There was a man on a horse watching him. Büber wiped at his face with his clothes. No, not a man. Not yet.
“My lord,” said Büber. “If I’d known you were joining us, I’d have found something more suitable to wear.”
Felix, leaning over the front of his saddle, grinned. “I’ll take honest sweat over Byzantine robes, Master Büber.”
“Have you brought more men?”
“Three centuries. I left them at Rosenheim – they walked while I rode. There was time enough for me to get here, but not them.”
“As long as we have them in the morning.” Büber wrung out his shirt and used it to dry his hair. “Did they bring shovels?”
“By the cart-load. Good iron ones, too.” Felix’s horse seemed interested in the water. The prince dismounted and led it down, where it dipped its head and drank deep. “Did Master Reinhardt mind that I put you over him.”
“Mind? I think he’ll get over the disappointment, and I still haven’t managed the trick of being in two places at once.” He squeezed his shirt out again and struggled into it, covering up his scars. “He’ll have plenty to be in charge of, and once the battle starts? I don’t know of any plan that survives meeting the enemy.”
“I wanted someone who knows what fighting dwarves is like,” said Felix, his hand on his horse’s bridle. “That’s why I chose you. Master Reinhardt’s a good man, but—”
“And you’ve done more than that, Master Büber: giants and monsters, too. Sometimes I think you’re the only veteran we have.” Felix pulled at the horse’s reins, and led him round in a broad circle.
Büber carried his boots to the bank and sat on the grass, pulling them on. “We’re unprepared for war. I can’t deny that. So are they. Some battle-hardened soldiers wouldn’t go amiss, though. If the people of Augsburg and München decided that fighting each other was mad and threw their lot in with us, I’d be a happier man.”
“We’ve asked. We haven’t had a reply from either side yet.”
“A shame.” Büber stamped his feet. “We’re stretched thin.”
“I know.”
They both turned to look up the valley.
“Another month, or two,” said Felix. “It’d make all the difference.”
“Half these men are farmers or their sons. They’ll be needed to get the crops in before the snows come. But if Ironmaker waits that long, he runs the risk of getting snowed in himself, no matter if we’ve made harvest home or not. No,” said Büber, “he’ll attack sooner than that.”
“I read your report—”
“Reinhardt’s report,” said Büber.
“Your words, his pen. These carts of theirs. I’d like to see them for myself.”
Now he was washed and wet, Büber felt the need for a fire and some food. With the sun occluded, the summer air was cooling down. He suppressed a shiver.
“It’s a dangerous journey, my lord. They’re on the south side of the town and there’s no easy approach. You have to get right down into the valley, and that’s full of dwarves.”
“You’re trying to put me off, Master Büber.”
“I’m not going to lead my lord prince into the heart of the enemy’s camp unless there’s a very good reason for doing so. Sightseeing isn’t a good reason.” He kicked at a stone. “I didn’t fight shoulder to shoulder with you at the library just so I could watch you throw your life away on a whim later.”