✦ 21 ✦

Trifels Castle, 14 June, Anno Domini 1525

 

AT TRIFELS CASTLE, SHEPHERD JOCKEL sat on his throne, dispensing justice.

Two peasants knelt before him with their heads bowed, humbly waiting for his verdict. Crows flew past the empty windows, cawing as though they expected good pickings in the near future. Otherwise silence reigned, a silence that was almost tangible in the cold, sooty walls. Around the throne, which was made of woven willow, leather, and furs, stood about a dozen more men, waiting grimly with their arms crossed to hear what Jockel had to say. The peasants had introduced this sham court a few weeks ago, to show that they were their own masters. But, from the first, they had addressed no one but Shepherd Jockel as master.

He was toying with a silver goblet set with semiprecious stones, acting as though he was weighing up the case, but he had come to his decision long ago.

“You made off by night in secret, without permission of the Peasants’ Council, even though we may be about to face the last battle, the one that will decide everything,” he said in a low, firm voice, while he looked at the sparkling goblet in his hands. “What have you to say for yourselves?”

“Sir,” began one of the two accused men submissively. He wore a torn, threadbare shirt over his thin chest and nervously kneaded his broad-brimmed hat. “I . . . I really don’t know what battle you mean. But battle or no battle, we have to think of our fields at home. The wild boar have been rampaging all over them, trampling on everything, there was a terrible storm that blew down the barns, our wives and children just can’t manage alone any longer.”

“So you thought you’d leave your comrades in the lurch, and kill a few wild boar instead of the league’s landsknechts?” Jockel asked with an innocent expression. Some of the men standing around laughed quietly. “You tell me what I’m to make of that.”

“It would only have been for a few days,” muttered the other peasant. He stared at the flagstones on the floor, which were covered with bones, animal droppings, and leaves, as if he could look straight through a hole there and see hell. “After that we’d have come back again for sure.”

“And suppose the elector of the Palatinate and his men had turned up here first, eh? Did you stop to think of that, you two numbskulls? Did you think not of yourselves for once, but of our common cause, damn it?”

Jockel had risen to his feet. He threw the goblet straight at the crouching peasant with the broad-brimmed hat. It hit the man right on the forehead, and he collapsed, whimpering.

“We can’t give in now!” Jockel shouted. “Not now! That’s what they expect us to do—go back to our fields so they can slaughter us one by one. What you did was no less than cowardly desertion.”

“In the town of Zabern in Alsace, they massacred thousands of us,” ventured one of the dozen or so peasants in the great hall, doubtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, Jockel, we have courage. But how about our wives and children?” When a couple of the other bystanders nodded, he went on more firmly. “They even killed the babies in Zabern. And the landsknechts took the women away as their whores. It doesn’t look good for us here in the Palatinate, either. More and more towns and cities have been giving up, now that Würzburg’s fallen into the hands of the enemy, and the elector here began sending his troops against us. In Speyer the bishop and the citizens have joined together, and over in the county of Neuscharfeneck the peasants live in fear of the old count sending a punishment battalion. Maybe this is the time to negotiate, before there’s nothing left to negotiate about.”

He paused for effect, and Jockel nodded mildly, like he took the man’s point. He must go to work cautiously now.

“I see. Negotiate,” he said at last, leaning back in his throne. “Not a bad idea. That’s what the peasants did in Zabern, too. The duke of Lorraine promised them safe conduct. So they came to the city gates without weapons. And then what?” The men looked at him expectantly, and Jockel sighed. “Then the massacre began. Almost twenty thousand of us, slaughtered like cattle. Twenty thousand. Is that what we want? To negotiate?”

The peasants around the throne murmured quietly. Jockel could feel that he had them in the palm of his hand again. Recently he had found it harder and harder to keep his men under control, even though it had all begun so promisingly. After the discovery of the tunnel, storming Scharfenberg Castle had been child’s play. Unfortunately Jockel had not been able to keep his men from burning and plundering the castle. With all the robbing, drinking, and eating, Count Scharfeneck had slipped through their fingers, and with him a good sum of ransom money. Jockel had been furious and ordered two of the worst drinkers to be whipped.

The peasants had not been so destructive the next day, when they took Trifels Castle, which was poorly guarded. Jockel had a suitable headquarters at last. Since then, he and his band had ruled over the entire Eusserthal area from the castle. The town of Annweiler had joined the rebellion, and paid tribute. The surrounding castles had been destroyed or were keeping quiet.

But for some weeks, things had seemed to be changing. Elector Ludwig of the Palatinate, after initially appearing willing to negotiate, had marched against the peasants with the archbishop of Trier, and town after town surrendered or was burned. The insurgents lacked a beacon, a signal that would unite them all again. Sometimes it seemed to Jockel that he was the only one who still knew what was to be expected from a leader.

He looked around the now filthy Knights’ House and grinned at the thought that Emperor Barbarossa might once have dined here. Now he, Shepherd Jockel, was an emperor himself, lord of Eusserthal and Trifels, with the power of life or death. He clapped his hands in a lordly manner.

“Listen, my brothers,” he proclaimed. “Nothing is lost yet. On the contrary, only yesterday I heard news that the peasants are rising in other countries as well. In England, in France, even far away in Spain—they’re all on our side.” That was a downright lie, but the members of his audience were glad to clutch at any straw. They looked up at him hopefully.

“But if we are going to win, we must be strong,” he went on. “Strong and unyielding. And so my judgment is that the two accused be whipped, and then put in the pillory in Annweiler, as a warning to all. That is only just.” He nodded graciously, and made a gesture that closed the matter. He had really wanted to have the two offenders hanged, but he felt that would have been going too far. However, the death sentence might be passed in the following weeks.

When they had finally won.

Because Jockel was still firmly convinced that the peasants would be victorious. Even if these meek lambs didn’t share his opinion. What they needed, however, was something to believe in. A symbol, a beacon under which they would unite to sweep away the rulers of this world in a mighty storm of blood.

Jockel watched as the two sobbing offenders were dragged away by some of the other men, and then he snapped his fingers.

“Show in the next accused men,” he ordered. “And bring me another goblet of Palatinate wine, quick as you can. Justice is a damn thirsty business.”

 

A hundred miles away, a broad barge was making its way through the waters of the Rhine. It was a freighter, lying low in the water, loaded up with several dozen casks of wine and salt. The voyage was so slow that, out of sheer boredom, Agnes had taken to counting the sailboats, rowboats, and rafts coming toward them the other way. They had been obliged to put in, again and again, at the many little tollbooths erected on the riverbank by every county, every bishopric, every fief, however small. Mathis stood beside Agnes at the rail, yawning and stretching his limbs.

“I guess it would have been faster on foot,” he sighed, turning to Melchior von Tanningen, who had also come forward to the bow. At least you could feel a little breeze blowing there. It was nearly midday, and the sun burned mercilessly down from the sky.

“Faster maybe, but not safer.” Melchior von Tanningen pointed to the steep mountain slopes on the left bank, densely overgrown with trees and bushes. “There may be bands of plundering peasants here, too. How are you going to convince them that you’re one of their men?”

“Am I?” retorted Mathis gloomily. “What with all this slaughter on both sides, I’m not so sure. And the outcome of the struggle was decided long ago. It’s just that the local peasants don’t yet know that.”

“I don’t think we, of all people, should tell them so,” said Agnes. “The bearers of bad news are always the first to lose their heads.”

Lost in thought, Agnes was looking at the wooded bank while at the same time she wondered what might be going on at home in Trifels Castle. Was her father’s castle still standing? Had it been stormed, or even razed?

It was now ten days since they had set off together from the Franconian village of Ingolstadt, going west. So far they had covered almost a hundred and fifty miles, on foot and by water, through a countryside still in flames. Many of the local feudal lords had torched their subjects’ villages out of revenge. Captured insurgents were beheaded, burned at the stake, torn apart by horses, or blinded. Yet there were still parts of the country where the peasants refused to give up. Some bands were stubbornly holding out in the north of the Palatinate, and near the Alps. Agnes was glad that they had reached the Rhine without being ambushed or impeded in any other way. Beyond Mainz, rumors of risings and punitive actions had gradually petered out. Nonetheless, they were still on the alert.

To avoid unnecessary danger, Agnes had cut her hair short and wore men’s clothing. An extra coat—far too hot for the weather—hid her figure. Melchior had also acquired a plainer doublet, so that now all three of them looked like traveling journeymen or musicians. That had also helped them to buy cheap passage on the freighter now taking them to the destination that Agnes had wished to reach for so long: St. Goar.

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.”

Creaking, the barge came in to the pier in the harbor, where the crew tied it up and began unloading casks of wine. The captain, with a grudging expression, paid the toll due here on every passing vessel. Only when that was done was the chain lowered into the river again. Agnes, Mathis, and Melchior took their leave of the boatmen and went along the pier, which led to one of the town gates.

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 come 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 old man put his broom down in a corner and wiped his hands clean on his habit.

“I am the dean,” he replied. “My name is Father Domenicus.”

Then he shuffled over to the steps and climbed to the gallery, groaning with the effort.

“Please follow me. It is indeed time for you to know more about the ring and those who have worn it.”

 

The man who had introduced himself as Father Domenicus went up the steps to the gallery without turning around to look at his three companions. They followed him, hesitantly. The canon led them to a narrow door to the right of the apse, which he unlocked with a rusty key from the bunch at his waist. Then he beckoned them in. The door opened into a small room with narrow windows, through which not much sunlight could fall. A few torches burned in their holders. Gravestones were set into the stone of the floor and the walls, memorials with reliefs showing the dead, who seemed to watch Agnes. There was a musty smell, and she felt a slight draft that she could not explain.

“This is the oldest part of the church,” said the Father, and his hoarse voice echoed through the vault. “St. Goar’s baptismal chapel. A series of great lords who had done good service to the monastery were laid to rest here.” He pointed to one of the tombstones on the wall, showing an old man with a little lamb in his arms. “For instance Friedrich von Fels, abbot of Prüm at the time when the abbey became a principality under the Staufer emperors. Next to him is Abbot Regino, who ruled the foundation during the bad times of the Norman occupation and was one of the greatest historians of his epoch. And Countess Adelheid von Katzenelnbogen . . .” With a shaking hand, Father Domenicus pointed to a gravestone let into the ground, showing an elegant lady in court dress with a veil. “She gave the monastery a large sum of money that enabled the library to be extended.”

“Excuse me, Father,” Mathis said. “But weren’t you going to tell us about the ring that Agnes wears?”

“Quiet, boy!” Father Domenicus’s eyes flashed at the young man. His bushy brows shook slightly in the torchlight. “Young people are always in such a hurry, they overlook what’s really important. If you want to understand all this, then kindly listen.” He took a deep breath and then went on.

“It is not by chance that so many abbots of Prüm lie here. That mighty Benedictine abbey has always watched over this foundation. It was no less than Frederick of the house of Hohenstaufen, Barbarossa’s grandson, who made the abbey an independent principality a good three hundred years ago. However, the emperor had one stipulation . . .” Father Domenicus raised his voice, so that it filled the whole room. “Frederick was obsessed by knowledge. He was crazy about inventions, studies, written records, books, parchment scrolls—in fact everything that mankind has ever thought of. His clever mind was legendary. The scholars of that time called him the Stupor Mundi, the Wonder of the World. And he charged the abbey of Prüm with hoarding that knowledge. So the monks planned a huge library. It was to be in the middle of the German Empire, in a place that was easily accessible to travelers and could also be reached by water in troubled times. Their final choice was St. Goar.”

“But I don’t see any library here,” Agnes objected. “I mean, if it was to be so large, where are all the rooms that would be needed, all the shelves? Not in this church, I suppose. Is it in the abbey nearby?”

Father Domenicus gave a small smile. “As I was saying, those who hurry ahead too fast miss seeing what is essential.”

He went over to the last memorial stone on the wall. It showed an ecclesiastical figure with an abbot’s crozier, holding a small box in his right hand. Only now did Agnes notice that the box was covered by a small plate also set into the stone. Father Domenicus pushed that aside to reveal a hollow space with a rusty handle in it. When the canon pulled the handle, there was a slight jolt, and the tombstone squealed outward. A spiral stone staircase came into view behind it, and a cold draft of wind met Agnes and the others.

“The library is down there,” said Father Domenicus, as he took a torch from its holder on the wall. “The greatest collection of knowledge in the entire German Empire. Abbot Dieter von Katzenelnbogen had it built with his mother’s money. Now his own memorial forms the door to it.” Groaning, the old man climbed down the well-worn steps. “Come with me, and see the miracle of St. Goar.”

Like the interior of a snail shell, the staircase wound its way deeper and deeper into the rock under the church. It finally ended at an arched gateway, with a door of solid wood reinforced with iron plates. Father Domenicus used his torch to light a sooty glass lantern hanging from a hook beside the arch. He carefully extinguished the torch, and only then did he take the large bunch of keys out from under his habit again and put one of the keys into the lock.

“Candles and torches are forbidden in here,” he explained. “And the separate rooms through which we shall now be going are all secured with fireproof doors. If a conflagration were to break out, then at least we can confine it to a certain area. That has happened twice in the last three hundred years, and even so the loss was painful enough.”

The door swung open. Agnes held her breath.

All she had known before was the little library at Trifels, and once she had been allowed to visit the library of Eusserthal monastery, but this was quite different. She saw a whole universe full of books spread out before her. Shelves full of large tomes, slim leaflets, documents, letters, and parchment scrolls towered many feet above her and went on back into the darkness, where she lost sight of them. Ladders and portable steps led to the upper rows, and there were small balconies around the walls. Agnes heard a rustling sound and saw a monk with an armful of books bending low to go along a passage to her left. He said not a word, but the sound of his footsteps rang through the vault, producing a strange echo that sounded like individual raindrops falling. There was also a slight fluttering noise, like they had scared an animal by intruding.

Meanwhile, Father Domenicus went ahead, holding up his lantern to show the full extent of the building, shelf by shelf. Agnes estimated that this hall must be over fifty yards long, and many corridors branched off among the shelves, leading to other doors. It all seemed to have been hewn out of the rock, a laborious task. Suddenly she was glad of her warm coat. It was cold as the grave down in this vault.

“Not exactly a comfortable situation for a library,” remarked Melchior, shivering as he rubbed his hands and looked up at the high ceiling.

“But a safe one,” retorted Father Domenicus. “The low temperature and dry air mean that the works do not go moldy. That is probably also to do with the salt that seeps out of the rock here, although we don’t know for certain. However, there is no better place to store so many books.”

“How many are there?” asked Agnes.

“We think about a hundred thousand. Most of them, however, are parchment scrolls and worn old records that need daily attention. Incidentally, the famous library at Alexandria had a stock five times as large. All the same, we think we can be proud of ours.”

Father Domenicus went on past the tall shelves. Once again a single monk carrying books crossed their path, and he greeted the dean by bowing his head.

“How is it that no one knows about this library?” asked Melchior. “You said that travelers have access to it, so why have I never heard of it before?”

“Earlier, in the time of Frederick the Staufer, it was indeed open to all interested people. But then came the bad times when there was no emperor, and we thought it better to close our gates. These days, a few know about it again. We seek out such people, and there are more of them every year. Why not?” Father Domenicus sighed. “Since the invention of printing, books are not so special any longer. There are some in every city. That does make them less attractive to thieves, but their magic, sad to say, is also lost.”

They had now turned off along a passage to the right and came to another door, which the dean opened with one of the keys from his bunch. The room beyond it was considerably smaller, but full to the roof with large volumes and parchment scrolls. Walls of books up to the ceiling divided the space into niches, corridors, and blind alleys, all in the dark. The center of the room, which was empty, contained a heavy round table, with a design of three black lions on a yellow field. Several rickety, ancient-looking folding stools were placed around it. Father Domenicus carefully put down the lantern on the table and lit a series of glass chandeliers hanging from the rock of the ceiling by chains. At last it was light enough for Agnes to stop feeling as if she’d been buried alive.

“This is the heart of the library,” Father Domenicus began, as he walked along the bookshelves in search of something and disappeared behind a wall of shelves. “These are the books that Frederick the Staufer had read himself—or, in the case of some, had written in his own hand.” He came back with a shabby book, its cover showing a crowned king beside a griffin.

“I know that book,” Agnes cried in surprise. As if by magic, the room seemed to swallow her voice up. “I have it too. It is the—”

“De arte venandi cum avibus,” the dean finished, smiling. “The art of hunting with birds. Emperor Frederick II wrote it himself. This is the original, which many think was destroyed in his own time at the siege of Parma.” Lovingly, he stroked the leather spine of the book, and then put it back on a shelf and turned back to the three visitors. “But we are not here to discuss birds, but because of the ring you wear on your hand, are we not? May I examine it for a moment?”

Rather reluctantly, Agnes took the ring off her finger. Father Domenicus brought out a glass lens from under his habit and held it and the ring close to his face, so that a huge fish’s eye seemed to be looking at Agnes. At last, satisfied, the dean nodded. “Barbarossa’s signet ring, no doubt about it. There is only this one, which can be identified by the tiny initials hidden in the beard. To the untrained eye, they look like scratches.”

“But I thought there were many such rings,” Agnes said.

Father Domenicus laughed. “Whoever told you so either had no idea of the facts, or was trying to hide something from you. This one ring was handed on by the Staufers from generation to generation as a sign of their power. Frederick Barbarossa himself wore it first, then his son Henry VI, after him Frederick II, and then his sons Henry, Conrad, and Manfred. They all died, and so did Frederick’s illegitimate sons, either in battle, by poison, or of sickness. When Conradin, Frederick’s grandson, was killed by the French, the ring passed to the last male descendant of the Hohenstaufen line: his uncle Enzio, who was imprisoned in Bologna for twenty years, until his death.”

Agnes nodded thoughtfully. “My father confessor at Trifels, Father Tristan, also told me about Frederick’s descendants, although he didn’t mention the ring in that connection. I’m more and more inclined to think that Father Tristan wanted to hide something from me. But why?”

In spite of her warm coat, she was suddenly overcome by a shivering fit. Mathis took her hand and gently pressed it.

“Agnes found the ring near Trifels Castle,” he said, turning to the dean. “Or rather her falcon did. Have you any idea how it came to be there? Maybe it was all just coincidence.”

“Coincidence? Oh no, I think not. Quite the opposite. But to understand that, you must first listen to a story of some length.” With a wave of his hand, Father Domenicus indicated to his guests that they should sit at the table. Then he took another large book off the shelves and leafed through it. It contained a series of colored illustrations. When the dean had found what he wanted, he placed the book on the table in front of Agnes and pointed to a page showing a handsome young man with his hair cut in the bobbed style typical of the chivalric period.

“This is Enzio, Frederick’s favorite son, even though he was born out of wedlock,” he said mildly. “He is said to have been very like his father. Eager for knowledge, and inclined to poetry. But in his youth, he was taken prisoner at the battle of Fossalta and was kept captive in Bologna for the rest of his life. He was allowed to write letters and see visitors, but his guards took care that his meetings with those visitors never went unobserved. Except in one case . . .” Father Domenicus cleared his throat. “Well, there was a nun. Her name was Eleanor of Avignon, she was descended from the Norman nobility, and she must have been very beautiful. Enzio fell in love with her. And there was a child of their love, a daughter called Constanza.”

“My God, Constanza!” Agnes said. She began trembling again. “The woman in my dreams.”

“And a hitherto unknown descendant of the Hohenstaufen family.” Melchior von Tanningen took his lute off his shoulder. “What a subject for a ballad. Listen to this . . .” He was about to play his lute, but a dark look from Mathis silenced him.

Father Domenicus looked at the minstrel with some annoyance, but finally he went on. “At the time of Constanza’s birth, the Staufer dynasty had in practice died out. There were a few members of the family, but they had been scattered far and wide, and without the ring they lacked the necessary legitimacy. In addition, Frederick II had drawn up a deed to avoid quarrels over the succession. Only the ring and the deed made their possessor the one true heir of the Staufers, whether a man or a woman. Both were in the hands of Enzio, and he passed them on to his only child.”

“Constanza,” murmured Agnes. “Is that why she had to be eliminated?”

Father Domenicus nodded. “Enzio knew that his child’s life was in danger. Charles of Anjou, the French king’s brother, had already had the Staufer descendants Conradin and Manfred killed. He also had Manfred’s sons imprisoned in Castel del Monte, where two of the brothers were finally blinded and went mad. Only the third managed to escape, but he, too, died, in distant Egypt, his mind deranged. Charles of Anjou was not to know about Constanza.” The dean leafed through the old book until he came to the drawing of a castle that was extremely familiar to Agnes. A shudder ran up her spine, and it was nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“That was why Enzio secretly sent the child to Trifels, where she grew up in anonymity as a lady’s maid,” said Father Domenicus, reading on. “Constanza herself knew nothing of her high birth. Only Philipp von Falkenstein, then the castellan of Trifels Castle, was in on the secret. And it was he who kept the ring and the deed for Constanza. In the end, and while she was at the castle, Constanza met a handsome young squire about to receive the accolade of knighthood. His name was—”

“Johann,” Agnes whispered. “Johann of Brunswick. My God—my dreams were all true!”

Father Domenicus looked at her in surprise. “Yes, Johann of Brunswick,” he replied at last. “A Guelph, and thus a scion of the second most powerful dynasty after the Staufers. Only at their wedding did Constanza learn about her background from the castellan. Philipp von Falkenstein solemnly gave her the ring and the deed, and she let Johann into the secret.”

Agnes now looked as if she were in a trance as she listened to the dean’s words.

“Constanza bore Johann a son, and they called him Sigmund,” Domenicus went on. “For a while they were happy. But then a terrible thing happened: the Habsburgs, now ruling the German Reich, heard about Constanza’s true origins. And they also heard about the child . . .” Father Domenicus sighed deeply. “Imagine: a child descended in equal measure from the two most important dynasties in the empire—dynasties that had been at loggerheads with each other in the past. And his existence came to light in the difficult time when a power struggle for the German throne was in progress among the nobility. The princes would certainly have made little Sigmund their king. The Habsburgs could not tolerate that, so they sent their henchmen to murder the young family.”

Lost in thought, Agnes nodded. She was glad she was sitting on the rickety stool, because her legs suddenly felt as soft as butter. Mathis was still holding her hand.

“But the three of them escaped,” she murmured. “I saw that, too, in my dreams. What became of them?”

Once again, Father Domenicus sighed. “Johann was captured in Speyer and beheaded. Constanza also fell into the trap set by the Habsburgs’ men. She was tortured, and then walled up alive in Trifels Castle. The Habsburgs were merciless.”

“My God,” breathed Agnes. “And the boy?”

“He had disappeared, and was never found. It was the same with the ring and the deed.”

“Disappeared?” Mathis leaned over the table and looked keenly at the dean. “What do you mean, disappeared? I don’t think you would have told us this whole story if that was the end of it.”

Father Domenicus gave a small smile. “You may be right, my young friend. Very well, the boy had not really disappeared. At the last moment, Constanza managed to hide him with a family of tanners in Annweiler, and with him the ring and the deed. She told the family the secret of her origin, and asked them to protect her son. Sigmund grew up to be an ordinary tanner. Only when he was an adult did his foster parents tell him about his true descent. Sigmund told his own firstborn child later, and he in turn passed the information on in the same way. As time went on, these descendants of the Staufers took some other citizens of Annweiler into their confidence, relying on their help to keep their secret and protect them. This went on for many generations, and a myth grew up in the Wasgau around these last descendants of the first Staufer emperor.” The dean rose to his feet and looked up at the rock of the ceiling, with his hands folded as if in prayer. “A myth that was preserved by a little order in Annweiler, a sworn brotherhood devoted to the protection of the heirs of the Staufers, who would pass on their knowledge from generation to generation until the day when darkness fell on the world once more, and a true emperor was needed again. Many think that day has now come . . .”

At last Father Domenicus fell silent, and only the echoing footsteps of other monks in the vast catacombs could be heard.

“How do you know all this?” Mathis asked at last.

“How do I know it? Well, there have long been rumors of a descendant of the Staufers called Constanza who had a baby at Trifels Castle. But we knew for certain only about a year ago. One of the legendary Annweiler Brotherhood came to see us, bringing bad news. He said that after so many centuries, the Habsburgs had learned of the secret that had been kept so long. They had already tried to kill Constanza’s last descendants, several years ago, and now they were trying again.”

Father Domenicus made his slow way to a shelf at the back of the room where a single scroll of parchment lay, tied with a leather thong. It bore a seal showing the head of a bearded man. The dean unrolled the parchment, carefully spreading it out on the table. It was written in Latin, the words slightly blurred but still legible, and standing out red as blood from the thin vellum of their background.

 

Nos Fridericus Dei gratia Sacri Romani Imperii possessorem huiusce diplomatis heredem singularem ducatus Sueviae declaramus . . .

 

When Agnes had deciphered the first line, she felt faint, and briefly all went black before her eyes.

 

We, Frederick, by the grace of God ruler of the Holy Roman Empire, hereby declare the possessor of this deed the sole heir of the Staufers. His sign will be the ring of this family, which he will always bear with him as the insignia of power . . .

 

“The messenger from Annweiler brought us the deed,” Agnes heard the father go on, feeling like she were listening to him through a thick tapestry hanging on the wall. “Enzio himself had given it to little Constanza in the past, together with the ring, so that she could prove her birth. Later, the Brotherhood kept the document for whoever was then the bearer of the ring, to keep him or her from unnecessary danger. Ever since, the name of the next firstborn child has been added to the family tree. That identifies the mysterious descendant whom the Habsburgs are now, for the second time, trying to kill. The messenger told us the name, and said that we were to tell the whole secret if that person, or indeed one of that person’s heirs, ever came to St. Goar bearing the sign of recognition, an object that, like the document, was handed down over the generations.” Father Domenicus smiled, and at last gave the ring back to Agnes, who was sitting hunched on her stool, rigid and motionless. Then he knelt to her and bowed his head. Only now did Agnes see, as if through a veil, that other monks had come through the door, and they too went on their knees to her.

“Hail, Agnes von Erfenstein, baroness of the Staufer dynasty, last legitimate descendant of Barbarossa,” said the dean in his hoarse voice. “I almost failed to recognize you in man’s clothing, with your hair cut short. Now is the time when the German Empire needs your help.”

 

Agnes sat on her stool, like she’d been turned to stone, while the dean’s words echoed through her mind.

Hail, Agnes von Erfenstein . . . last legitimate descendant of Barbarossa . . .

About half a dozen monks knelt on the floor around her. Melchior and Mathis gaped at her, while she herself was incapable of any movement.

“But . . . but that can’t be so,” she finally managed to say. She tried to laugh, but it was a forced, difficult sound. “My parents were not from powerful families. My father was an ordinary knight, and he owed his post as castellan of Trifels to Emperor Maximilian, while my mother . . .”

“The mother you speak of was not your own,” Father Domenicus gently interrupted her. “Agnes, it is time for you to know the truth. That messenger from Annweiler, an old tanner by the name of Nepomuk Kistler, told us all about it. Philipp von Erfenstein and his wife, Katharina, had no children of their own. Indeed, they couldn’t have children at all. But one day they found a little girl of about five, weeping, a child with matted blonde hair, outside the gates of Trifels Castle. She had nothing with her but a crumpled piece of paper, saying that she was of high birth, and her real parents were dead. Your foster parents took this as divine providence and brought you up as their own child.”

“My . . . my mother . . .” Agnes began again, with large tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Was not Katharina von Erfenstein, but Friderica of the house of Hohenstaufen. All the firstborn children of the secret line of Staufers after Sigmund were given the names Fridericus or Friderica, referring to their mighty ancestor. That was the decision of the Brotherhood at the time. The order also taught those firstborns the ancient language of minstrels, and their stories and songs from a time long past, so that the knowledge would never be lost.” Father Domenicus smiled. “You are a Friderica yourself, Agnes. You were your mother’s only child.”

“And . . . and my father?” asked Agnes, with difficulty.

“He was a simple tanner of Annweiler, a member of the Brotherhood who knew the secret.” The dean looked kindly at Agnes. “I wonder whether you still have any memories of your real parents? After all, you were already five when you came to the Erfensteins.”

Agnes suddenly thought of the old Occitanian song that her mother always sang to her. She tasted the sweetness of milk with honey in it and smelled the distant perfume of violets . . .

Coindeta sui, si cum n’ai greu cossire, quar pauca son, iuvenete e tosa . . .

Could it be possible that those few memories were not of Katharina von Erfenstein at all, but of a strange woman called Friderica?

A strange woman who was her mother.

The monks were still kneeling before her on the stone floor as though they were waiting for something, for a sign, for an order. But Agnes had no idea what it could be. Mathis and Melchior were also staring at her as if, after the dean had made his declaration, she had become someone entirely different.

“A legitimate descendant of the Staufers and the Guelphs, hidden at Trifels,” sighed Melchior, shaking his head incredulously. “If that’s true, then I am definitely going to win the singers’ contest at the Wartburg.”

“I . . . I dreamed of my mother . . .” Agnes began, as if in a trance. Her fingers caressed the cool gold of the ring. “Only recently. It must have been the smell of freshly tanned leather in Barnabas’s cart that took me back to the past. The leather, and the beechwood smoke . . .”

“Barnabas?” asked Father Domenicus, puzzled.

“My parents were tanners,” Agnes went on as if she hadn’t heard him. Her thoughts were far, far away, in a time many years ago. “We were out in our cart together. We . . . we were taking the tanned skins to market in Speyer as we always did. Father had treated the skins for three years, they were good calfskin, and among them was vellum for the parchment used in the bishop’s archives. With some of the money they earned, they were going to buy me a new doll in Speyer. I’d wanted one so much . . .” Agnes was staring into space, her voice louder now. “But then we were attacked in the forest. I heard galloping horses, and screams, and gasping sounds . . . it was all so fast. Our servant, Hieronymus, he took me away. Oh God, my parents!” She stopped and stared at the dean. “What happened to them?”

Father Domenicus took a deep breath. “I am afraid the assassins of the Habsburgs killed them in the course of that attack. At that time the German king Maximilian, the grandfather of Charles, had already been crowned Holy Roman Emperor, but his throne was not secure. France was not satisfied with playing second fiddle in Europe. Maximilian feared anything that might reinforce the Staufer line. When news came of a hidden descendant in Annweiler, the Habsburgs acted ruthlessly. But you escaped the assassins at the last moment.”

Agnes nodded. “An old woman saved me. She was in my dreams, too. She saw the ring that my mother gave me just before her death.” Absent-mindedly, she took hold of Barbarossa’s signet ring. It now felt as cold as ice around her finger. Suddenly it seemed tight, and much too heavy for her to wear for even one more day.

“You are right. It was probably a midwife of Annweiler who found you in the forest,” the dean quietly replied. “Fortunately she was a member of the Brotherhood. Your meeting must have been God’s own providence. She gave the ring to the order and took you to the gates of Trifels, the one place that she thought safe enough for you.”

“But if the ring was back in the hands of the order,” said Mathis, who, like Melchior von Tanningen, had been listening in astonishment until now, “then how did it return to Agnes?”

Father Domenicus sighed. “The messenger from Annweiler told us that, too. Last year, when the Habsburgs sent out their henchmen again, this midwife clearly felt very anxious. She wanted to be rid of the ring. When Agnes’s falcon appeared at her house, she felt it was meant by fate—”

“And she fixed the ring to Parcival’s leg,” Mathis finished excitedly. He turned to Agnes, pressing her hand. “Now at least we know why those damned dreams came to you from then on. The ring reminded you of your early childhood. And your mother probably told you the story of Johann and Constanza back then.”

Agnes said nothing. She suddenly remembered Melchior’s ballad, the one he had composed when they set out from Trifels.

She had a ring, from fair Constanza, as I sing. It sent her many a troubled dream . . .

It was like those lines brought long-forgotten rhymes and stories back to her. Once more, her thoughts went back to a distant, misty land . . .

 

I am lying in my bed, the warm quilt pulled up to my chin, outside the wind is whistling around the houses of Annweiler. Tell me about Constanza, Mother. Tell me how she first saw handsome Johann in the Knights’ House. Tell me about the ring. My mother sighs and casts up her eyes. Always that same, sad story, Agnes. Aren’t you getting tired of it? Come along, I’ll tell you the story of the Red Knight and . . . No! Constanza. I want to hear about Constanza and the ring. Please, please! I fidget and whine until my mother finally gives in . . .

 

“There must have been people who knew all along that Agnes wasn’t the Erfensteins’ own child,” said Mathis, thinking out loud, bringing Agnes out of her reverie. “The old people at the castle, I suppose. Hedwig the cook, and good old Ulrich Reichhart. He said something suggesting it before his death.”

Agnes still said nothing, caught up in her memories. But after a while she shook herself and glanced at the monks who, with Father Domenicus, were watching her expectantly. They still seemed to be waiting for something.

“Very well. So if all this is as you say,” she said in a failing voice, turning to the dean, “if I really am descended from Barbarossa . . . what is that but a pretty story? Why are you so interested in it?”

The dean laughed quietly. “A pretty story, indeed. Do you know what power stories have, Agnes? Especially in times like these. Why do you think the Habsburgs are trying to find you again? Because people want to believe in stories. The empire burns from end to end. People need myths that will comfort them, they need someone who can stand for all their hopes and longings.” He paused for a moment before he went on, smiling. “You are that someone, Agnes von Erfenstein, descendant of the house of Hohenstaufen. But only if you accept your inheritance. Its symbolic power can hardly be overestimated.”

“What do you mean?” asked Agnes, frowning. “What inheritance?”

“Listen,” replied Father Domenicus. “The story is not over yet. You must—”

At that moment the door opened with a crash. Agnes cried out in terror, seeing the devil himself walk into the underground room.

Immediately after that, all hell broke loose around them.

 

Mathis, too, swung around on hearing the crash. He was still utterly confused by all the strange news that the dean had told them. His confusion turned to horror when he saw the figure now standing in the room. He was a man with a face as black as night. His dusty coat was also black, but his hose were blood-red. The stranger had kicked the door open, and he held two handguns, both with their triggers cocked.

They’re genuine wheel-lock pistols, thought Mathis. He’s no ordinary robber. Those weapons are worth a fortune.

He stood as though turned to stone with fear and astonishment, staring at the two pistols. He had seen such things only in drawings. Now he was about to find out what they were like in reality.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mathis saw Melchior von Tanningen throw himself in front of Agnes. Then there was a deafening explosion, closely followed by a scream. The dean collapsed, groaning, beside Mathis, with blood spurting from his shoulder. One of the bullets must have hit him.

“The ring,” moaned Father Domenicus, trying to stand up. “Save the ring and the deed. They must not . . . fall . . . into the wrong hands . . .”

The monks, screaming, rushed about like headless chickens, trying to get to safety in dark niches or behind the walls of books, where they flung themselves on the floor. One of them clung to the heavy framework of a shelf, which slowly tilted forward and fell to the floor with a crash. A shower of books, parchment scrolls, and loose pages fell on Mathis and Agnes. In the general chaos, Mathis crawled under the heavy oak table, closely followed by Agnes, who seemed to have recovered from her sudden faintness.

“Careful, the bastard’s going to fire again!”

That was Melchior, suddenly appearing beside them. With a grunt of effort, he braced himself against the mighty table and pushed until it fell on its side and could act as a shield.

Another explosion shook the room. This time the bullet hit the tabletop. It splintered, and Mathis heard a hiss as the bullet emerged only a hand’s breadth away from Melchior. It passed through his lute and stuck in the wall behind him. The minstrel took the instrument off his back and stared in disbelief at its shattered body and torn strings.

“He’ll pay for this,” he said angrily. “This Florentine model cost me two hundred guilders. With my initials on it in ivory.” He gently stroked the neck of the lute one last time, and then threw the lute at the attacker like an ax, but it missed its mark.

Meanwhile, Agnes was crouching on the floor with her hands over her ears. “Who . . . who is that?” was all she could get out, gasping. Mathis could hardly hear her through all the wailing of the monks and the noise of falling bookshelves.

“I guess an assassin sent by the Habsburgs!” he shouted against the racket. “Stay where you are! Melchior and I will—”

He fell silent, as an almost inhuman cry met his ears. Cautiously looking up, he saw one of the canons, his habit blazing, stagger along the rows of bookshelves, screaming. During the fight, one of the chandeliers had evidently fallen to the floor, setting several loose pages alight. The fire had already spread to a pile of books, and red and blue flames licked at them.

Mathis ventured a glance over the tabletop and saw the burning monk move toward the stranger with his arms spread wide. With an incomprehensible curse on his lips, the black-skinned man swerved, and the canon went on into the great hall.

My God, the library, Mathis thought. He’s going to set the whole library on fire.

The stranger had now cast aside his handguns and drawn his sword. Ready to fight, he approached the tabletop, while the other monks ran from the room behind him, screaming. Only Father Domenicus lay where he was on the floor, bleeding, with his eyes half closed.

By now there was so much smoke that Mathis could hardly see. Books and parchment scrolls burned everywhere, and several walls of shelves had fallen over, adding more fuel to the flames. Mathis could hear Melchior coughing beside him. The minstrel drew his sword. A slight smile was playing around his lips.

“I’m afraid I’ll need your help again, Master Wielenbach,” he said, with solemn formality. “That devil is after Agnes. I can deal with him, but you must get the noble lady to safety before this whole place goes up in flames.”

“Never mind all that,” Agnes snapped, rubbing her eyes, which were streaming from the smoke. “I can walk on my own two feet. But I swear to God I won’t go a step from here if we don’t help Father Domenicus too.” She pointed to the dean, who lay behind a bonfire of books and had evidently regained consciousness. He was groaning. “I don’t want him to die just because that lunatic hit an innocent man instead of me,” Agnes went on, shaking with fury.

“Spoken like a true heroine,” sighed Melchior. “Then take him out of here if you like, although I don’t think that—”

At that moment, the stranger leapt over the tabletop and raised his sword to strike a mortal blow. Melchior lunged, thrusting with his own sword, but his adversary had foreseen the move and nimbly swerved. While their duel went on, Mathis and Agnes hurried over to Father Domenicus.

“We must get out of here, Father!” Mathis shouted against the crackling of the flames. “Are you able to walk?”

The dean did not utter a sound. His lips trembled, and a large pool of blood had already formed around him. Finally, Mathis took him under the armpits, and Father Domenicus cried out quietly.

“We must be careful lifting him,” Agnes warned. “Any wrong movement could mean his death!”

“We don’t have time. If we stay here any longer it’ll mean the death of all of us.” Mathis got the dean over his shoulder and staggered toward the door with him. In passing, he saw Melchior von Tanningen and the black-skinned stranger still fighting in front of the tabletop.

Then thick black smoke hid them from view.

 

With a hoarse cry, the assassin flung himself toward Melchior. The two wheel-lock pistols lay on the ground exactly between them. Reloading them would have cost too much time, and so now he and Melchior had to fight with their swords, putting them on a more even playing field.

For a while the sword fight went this way and that, and only the ringing of the two men’s blades and the crackling of flames was heard. The brittle shelves, dry as dust, burned like tinder around them, their frameworks, breaking apart, crashed to the floor one by one, their contents feeding the flames as the fire grew and grew.

The smoke was so thick now that Melchior could sometimes see his opponent only in outline. Although his own cuts and thrusts were as precise as clockwork, somehow the assassin avoided them again and again. The man was obviously well trained.

The assassin raised his sword again, and the two blades met with an ugly scraping sound. The men’s faces were now so close that they almost touched. The black man bared his teeth in a grin. The dark smoke and flying ash had made Melchior almost as dark. They stood opposite one another in the middle of the room, like two ebony chessmen.

“Drop your weapon before it’s too late,” the assassin cried. “You have my word as a man of honor that I’ll let you go. It’s not you I’m after.”

Melchior only smiled as the sweat ran down from his forehead in channels, leaving white trails behind. “You destroyed my lute,” the little man got out at last, panting. “I’m sorry, but for that alone I can’t accept your offer.”

“Bloody fool!”

With a last desperate show of force, the assassin threw the delicately built minstrel against one of the bookshelves. The shelf fell with a deafening noise, and both men landed in a sea of books. They both struck out like drowning men to free themselves from the tomes. Both got to their feet at about the same time, but Melchior no longer had his sword in his hand.

“Thinking of giving up yet?” the assassin growled, circling his sword in the air. “Too late for that now, I’m afraid.”

But Melchior showed no fear. Instead, he linked his hands as if doing a conjuring trick, murmured a few words, and at last a bunch of keys appeared between his fingers, as though from nowhere. “Looking for something?” he asked with pretended guilelessness. “These must have fallen out of your pocket just now as you fell. I had to drop my own sword to feel for them, but I think it was worth it.”

“What are you thinking?” the assassin said. “We can talk about—”

“I think it’s time to say goodbye. As I told you, you shouldn’t have destroyed my lute. I’d never forgive a thing like that. Never.”

The little man kicked a pile of burning books into the assassin’s face, and then ran swiftly to the door. Bellowing, the black man dropped his sword and shook some smoldering pages out of his matted black hair. Then he ran after his adversary.

The door slammed shut, and next moment the key was turned in the lock. The assassin shook the handle, flung himself against the iron-clad wood with all his might, but the door did not give way.

“Open this door! For heaven’s sake open this door!” he kept shouting, although his pleas fell on deaf ears.

 

Breathlessly, Agnes ran after Mathis, who still carried the wounded dean over his shoulder. When they finally reached the great hall, they stopped in horror. It was considerably brighter than it had been an hour ago, when they came past the shelves with Father Domenicus. There seemed to be lanterns burning everywhere now. Next moment, Agnes saw where the brightness really came from.

My God, those aren’t lanterns. The whole library is going up in flames.

In his flight, the burning canon had obviously set fire to books in several places. Separate fires had started everywhere, and the flames had spread to other areas. Wherever Agnes looked, books glowed like paper lanterns in the darkness of the cavernous hall. There was no sign of the other monks. Presumably they had already left the library through the entrance.

Agnes and Mathis wearily dragged themselves on, while around them the first of the balconies and their blazing contents crashed to the floor. A shower of embers and ashes fell on them both, and again Agnes found that her thick coat did good service, protecting her from flying sparks.

After what felt like an eternity, they reached the front door. Directly in front of it lay a charred bundle, still smoking. When Agnes was about to climb over it she cried out in horror. A tiny black face with its teeth bared grinned at her. For a split second Agnes thought it was the little monkey, Satan, but then she saw that it was the corpse of a monk, burned beyond all recognition.

“At least he’s spared himself the fire of Purgatory,” gasped Mathis, breathless from the weight of the dean. “I have a terrible presentiment.”

Pushing past her, he tried the door handle, and swore.

“Locked. I was afraid of that.” he said angrily. “These craven clerics! Locking us in here, because they thought the devil was on their heels. Now what?”

Agnes pointed to Father Domenicus, still hanging limp over Mathis’s shoulders. “His bunch of keys,” she shouted, against the crackling of the flames. “The dean still has it on him.”

“Damn it, you’re right.” Groaning, Mathis carefully let the dean slip to the floor. Searching with quick fingers, he soon found the bunch of keys hanging from a cord around the waist of his habit. But as he was about to reach for it, the dean suddenly put out his hand, and clutched him by the shirt.

“Never fear, reverend Father,” Mathis reassured him. “We’re only taking the key to open the door. We’ll get you out of here, and then everything will be—”

“Quiet, boy, and listen to me,” Father Domenicus rasped. “There’s something else that . . . you must know.”

“Can’t you tell us up above?” Agnes said, looking anxiously around. “If we stay here much longer, we may be buried by one of the burning shelves.”

“It must . . . be now,” the dean groaned. “I feel . . . my end approaching.”

“Oh God, Father. You mustn’t die now, you mustn’t.” Agnes bent down to Father Domenicus. Looking at his gaunt face, she thought of Father Tristan, who had died in an equally cruel way. The dean took her hand and held it with all his might.

“Agnes, remember what I said. I . . . I was speaking of your inheritance. Of the symbol that can unite this divided empire again. You . . . must look for it. That is your task.”

“But what is it?” Mathis was leaning over the dean now, as well. Despite the heat, Father Domenicus was shivering all over. “Please tell us quickly, Father. There really isn’t much time left.”

Father Domenicus moaned. His voice was so low that they both had to bend down to hear it at all.

“On the day when . . . Constanza and Johann fled from Trifels with little Sigmund, they took something with them,” he whispered. “It was to be security for them, their bargaining tool if anything happened. They were captured, but their bargaining tool . . . was never found.”

The dean reached for Agnes’s hand, and drew her so close to him that his lips almost touched her ear.

“That was why the Habsburgs tortured Constanza so cruelly,” he said. “They . . . wanted her to tell them not just where the child was, but where she had hidden that inestimably precious thing. But she kept obstinately silent. Finally they walled Constanza up in Trifels Castle, leaving only a tiny gap open so that she could tell her tormentors the place. All they heard from her, however, was weeping and singing getting fainter and fainter until, at last, all was quiet. Constanza had taken her secret to the grave with her.”

“But what was it?” asked Mathis, out of the corner of his eye seeing more shelves nearby fall to the floor in flames. A fierce firestorm was sweeping through the library now. “Tell us, Father. Before all of us here take Constanza’s secret to our own graves with us.”

“What had Constanza and Johann hidden?” Agnes added her pleading to his. “What is so valuable that anyone would let herself be walled up alive for it?”

Once again, a slight smile played around Father Domenicus’s lips.

“Can’t you guess, Agnes?” he whispered. “What is the most valuable thing that the empire possesses? What is the most important symbol of all German emperors and kings?” He briefly closed his eyes, before the answer left him, like a last sigh.

“It is . . . the Holy Lance.”

At that moment, a huge explosion shook the library. Right above them, a burning balcony came away and fell down toward Agnes in a mighty shower of sparks.

 

The explosion shook the whole underground cavern like a huge earthquake.

At the last moment, Agnes managed to swerve aside as the balustrade of the balcony fell down toward her. The burning balcony buried the dean under it with a sound like thunder, while on the other side of it Mathis disappeared behind a wall of sparks and glowing embers.

“Mathis! Mathis!” she shouted. A few seconds that felt like an age to her passed, and then she heard a hoarse cough.

“I’m all right!” Mathis called. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

At last the shower of sparks died down, and not far away Agnes saw Mathis rise from the smoking ruins. He was black as a raven in the face, his clothes had begun to singe in several places, but otherwise he seemed uninjured. Between them lay beams, glowing books, and the remains of the balcony, which until recently had been above the door. Nothing could be seen of Father Domenicus.

“Oh no—the dean . . .” Agnes said.

“He’s with his God,” Mathis said. Then he kicked some of the rubble aside. “And if we don’t make haste, we’ll soon be in paradise ourselves.” Coughing, he held up Father Domenicus’s bunch of keys, which he had managed to save from the falling ruins at the last moment. “This damned door opens inward, so we’ll have to clear this . . .”

He broke off when a figure black with soot suddenly came tottering toward the two of them through the underground vault. The man was carrying such a high stack of books that his face was not in view. Only when he was within a few steps of them did Agnes see that it was Melchior von Tanningen.

“Thank God!” she cried. “I thought that devil had carried you down into the abyss with him.”

“If I interpret that explosion correctly, he’s just gone to hell himself,” replied Melchior, who swayed slightly under the burden of the books he carried. “He shouldn’t have destroyed my lute. I distinctly told him so.”

“You’re welcome to tell us the rest of it up above,” Mathis said. “It would be kind of you to give us a hand clearing away this rubble first.” Shaking his head, he looked at the books in the minstrel’s hands. “What in heaven’s name are you carrying about?”

“This one is Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parcival in a beautifully illustrated edition. Also a collection of the old minnesingers’ works; Emperor Maximilian’s book on tournaments, Freydal; and a few other books that deserve to be saved for posterity.” Melchior sighed. “But you’re right. It’s time to get out of here.” He carefully put the books on the floor and then helped Mathis and Agnes to push aside the burning beams near the doorway. Before long there was enough space clear for Mathis to approach the lock with the bunch of keys.

“Let’s hope we can find the right one quickly, before the smoke dazes us,” he choked. Then, disappointed, he took the first key out of the lock. “It’s not this one.”

“Hurry up!” Agnes was coughing. She stared, with watering eyes, at the pile of glowing beams beside her. The dean’s body must be somewhere under it. “I don’t know how long I can stand this smoke and heat.”

“Not this one either,” murmured Mathis. He frantically tried another key.

“I managed to get hold of a bunch of keys like that myself,” remarked Melchior. “Maybe I might try . . .”

“Aha, this one fits!” Mathis cried in relief, as one of the keys turned, and the door opened, squealing. “Now let’s get out. Before it all collapses on us.”

Agnes and Mathis hurried up the steep spiral staircase together, while the smoke hovered behind them like a spirit. Meanwhile, Melchior had picked up his books again, and followed at a slight distance. With every step, the air became noticeably cooler and fresher. It was as if, like Orpheus, they were emerging from the underworld. Agnes heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the open doorway leading into the baptismal chapel above them. In their haste, the fleeing Benedictine canons had not closed the memorial stone of Diether von Katzenelnbogen after them.

“So much lost knowledge!” Melchior sighed. “A real shame. To the best of my knowledge, there’s no such library any longer in the whole German Empire.”

“At least you managed to save a few valuable works,” said Mathis, who had now reached the way out.

Melchior grinned. “That I did. Not that I want to sell them, but every one of these books is worth as much as a dozen pure-bred horses.”

Mathis looked at the minstrel in surprise. “Damn it all, don’t say that again or I’ll be going back down there to get some for myself.”

Exhausted, trembling all over, Agnes climbed up through the opening, through which thin wisps of smoke still crept. The dignitaries on the nearby gravestones seemed to be inspecting her and her two companions almost reproachfully. Their shirts and hose were torn and charred at the edges; their hands and faces were black with soot. Only the whites of their eyes showed. Agnes wiped the sweat from her brow and looked around her. The chapel was empty, and after the roar of the flames an almost unreal silence reigned.

Suddenly they heard the shrill sound of the church bells ringing nearby.

“It won’t be long now before the monks reappear,” said Mathis. “If we want to avoid trouble, we’d better leave this church as fast as we can.”

“And what about all that we found out down there?” Agnes wearily rubbed her sooty eyes. She felt so weak that she had to lean against the wall to keep herself from fainting away. “It seems to me that this whole day was nothing but a nightmare, and I’m only just awakening from it.”

“It may as well have been a dream,” replied Mathis gloomily. “You a descendant of Barbarossa? Without Emperor Frederick II’s deed, all that is just a pretty story. Yes, you have the ring, but that’s not evidence that you’re really descended from the Staufers, not by a long shot.” He pointed to the smoking void behind them. “The proof of it lies in ashes down there.”

“Maybe I don’t want any proof. Maybe I’m glad I can simply be Agnes von Erfenstein, daughter of the castellan of Trifels Castle.”

Mathis looked at her sternly. “So how about the Holy Lance? Father Domenicus said you had to carry out a task. Have you forgotten that?”

“For God’s sake, why does everyone want to tell me what to do?” Agnes’s eyes glittered in her black sooty face like well-cut gemstones. “Can’t I make up my own mind anymore? I’ll tell you something, Mathis Wielenbach. I’m glad that the wretched deed has been burned. At least that means the story comes to an end and we can go home.”

“Maybe you can go home, my lady countess, but I’m a wanted insurgent. Have you by any chance forgotten that?”

“And I suppose you have forgotten that I ran away from my deranged, vengeful husband.”

Beside them, Melchior von Tanningen cleared his throat. “I am very reluctant to interrupt your extremely interesting conversation,” he said. “But as for the fate of that document, I fear I must disappoint my lady the countess.” Smiling, he drew out a folded sheet of parchment, slightly charred at the edges, from under his stack of books. It was the deed that Father Domenicus had shown them down in the library. Agnes recognized the family tree that had been kept up to date, and the seal of the Staufer emperor below it.

“When chaos broke out down in that chamber, I thought it best to take care of the deed myself,” the minstrel went on. “I think it is worth more than all the books I saved put together.” He tucked the parchment away in his soot-smeared doublet, put his books under his arm, and with a delicate step made for the way out of the chapel. “And now let’s get away fast, before we end up executed as arsonists who destroyed the greatest of all libraries in the German lands.”