✦ 22 ✦

Löwenstein Castle, near Heilbronn, 15 June, Anno Domini 1525

 

IN THE SKY NOT FAR from the family seat of the Löwenstein-Scharfenecks, a kestrel circled. In search of fat field mice, it flew over the fields where now, in mid-June, the ears of grain were turning gold as they ripened. It was nearly midday, and the sun beat down. There had been no rain for several days, and all who possibly could had taken refuge in the cool, shady rooms inside the castle, waiting for the worst of the heat to pass over.

Only one man stood on the battlements, watching the flight of the small red-brown bird. Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck held his crossbow steady, not the slightest tremor passed through his body, he fixed his eyes on his target one last time, and then he shot.

As if drawn on the end of a string, the bolt flew toward the sun. It hit the kestrel right in the breast. The bird fluttered frantically, refusing to accept its death, beat its wings a couple of times, trying to rise, and then sank like a stone to the depths, where it finally vanished from sight among the ears of wheat and barley.

“Got you, my little friend,” said the count, smiling.

Only now did he venture to exhale. Humming a tune, he unstrung the crossbow and put the string away with his remaining bolts and the hook used to string the bow, in a well-greased quiver. Before putting his yew-wood bow away, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck lovingly stroked the ivory intarsia work that adorned it. He had always loved shooting the crossbow: the whirr of the bolt, its silent flight, the deadly precision with which it finally found its mark. And he had always preferred it to those loud, stinking firearms that determined the course of battles everywhere these days. Any fool of a peasant could fire a gun at the enemy; for the crossbow you needed strength to string the bow, good eyes, and above all a great deal of practice.

These days he practiced almost daily.

His heart beat faster when he thought how he had shot down that inquisitive steward at Trifels like a deer last year. The act had given him a sense of absolute power that lasted for a long time. Not that the killing had been done for pure pleasure; it was a matter of necessity, or the man would have talked. The following murder of the drunken castellan, however, had given Friedrich no real satisfaction; the poison had taken effect slowly, with none of the thrill that you felt when your victim looked you in the eyes for the last time.

The crossbow was better for that.

“I might have known you’d be up here gazing into thin air, you ne’er-do-well.”

His father’s voice made Friedrich spin around. The old man was coming up the steps from the castle courtyard, breathing heavily and leaning on a stick. The mere sight of him was enough to turn the young count’s stomach. It always reminded him of the abuse and vituperation so often inflicted on him by his father, ever since his earliest childhood.

“I’m thinking,” replied Friedrich coolly. “You might try it yourself now and then.”

“Ha! Thinking. You’ve done nothing but think for weeks. If only you’d at least go hunting like other useless young men of your age, but no, the young count builds castles in the air while a mob of idiot peasants loll at their ease in his castle.”

Friedrich cast up his eyes. “Your own castle in the Palatinate was also burned, Father, don’t forget that. You have Neuscharfeneck back only because the peasants there have now given up.”

“Because they fear me. In your place, I’d at least have gathered a few men and won my property back.”

“You know it’s not as easy as that,” Friedrich said, between his teeth. His hands unconsciously felt for the crossbow that was still with him on the battlements, and his fingers toyed with the trigger.

Just one bolt. Just a brief click . . .

“Those dogs have hidden away in Trifels, and that, as you know, is much more difficult to capture than the surrounding castles,” Friedrich finally went on. “Do you want me to disgrace myself in public by standing outside my own property, a target for the peasants to shoot at?” His eyes flashed angrily at his father. “What’s more, I have no money left to get myself landsknechts, with a miserly father cutting off my funds.”

The old count frowned. “Take care how you speak to me, Friedrich. I’m still your father.” He brandished his stick in the air. “And I’m not wasting my money on that old place. When I was your age, I could already call three castles my own, and they weren’t decrepit ruins like Trifels. I never did understand what you saw in those old walls anyway. The Norman treasure—bah! Castles in the air . . .”

Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck looked out over the fields, staring fixedly at them, while his father went on complaining. He’d have liked to throw the old man over the battlements, simply to put an end to his carping at long last. Almost two months had passed since Friedrich’s headlong flight from Scharfenberg Castle. Long weeks that he had spent here at his father’s ancestral seat, occupying himself with the study of old records and practicing the crossbow, all in the company of dull-witted brutes. At the fall of Scharfenberg, Friedrich had managed to save himself by jumping into the ditch of manure outside the castle walls. It had been such a humiliating departure that the memory of it alone almost sent him out of his mind daily. Since then, his thoughts had gone around in circles all the time. That memory had suddenly forced everything he had dreamed of for so long into the background: the Norman treasure that would have allowed him to cut his ties with his father, an independent life as the proud lord of a castle. He could keep his hatred under control only by killing hares and game birds with his crossbow from up here now and then. That at least brought him relief for a few hours. But Friedrich knew that every time he aimed at a rabbit, pheasant, partridge, or grouse, it was a very different target that he really had in mind.

Agnes . . .

His humiliation had begun with her, and only with her would it end. Agnes had left him, in the company of that wretched minstrel, and then she had obviously given away the secret of the escape tunnel to the peasants. She had done it even though they were alike in so many respects. She was the first woman for whom he had felt something like affection. Friedrich knew he wouldn’t rest until he had her in his arms again. He spent nights on end imagining what he would do to her then.

Where are you, Agnes? Where are you?

So far, all the messengers he had sent out had returned empty-handed. They had found no trace of either Agnes or the minstrel.

“Well, maybe you’ll be lucky and won’t have to recapture your castle for yourself.” His father’s words suddenly brought him back to the present. The old man was standing beside him, looking out at the landscape baking in the heat. “I hear that the elector of the Palatinate is hunting the peasants like hares. This nightmare won’t last much longer.” He nodded grimly. “I’m thinking of mounting a punitive expedition in my own lands. There’s at least one rabble-rouser to be hanged in every provincial hole. The wounds must be cauterized before they begin to fester.” Ludwig von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck broke off and seemed to be thinking. Then he looked watchfully at his son. “Well, why not? Think you can do it?”

“Do what?” Friedrich replied, somewhat irritated. His mind had been wandering back to his gloomy train of thought again.

“I’ll need a hard man to lead my punishment squad. One who’ll shrink from nothing and feel no sympathy for children weeping because their fathers are hanging from the village linden tree, their tongues blue and hanging out. I also want to raise the rents again. It’s going to be difficult to squeeze any more out of those stubborn blockheads.” The old count scrutinized his son. “At least it would give you something to think about, and you could show what you’re made of.” He suddenly smiled, showing the blackened stumps of his teeth. “I tell you what—if you help me, you can have the men for your own purposes later. Take the fifty men I’d be giving you anyway for the punishment squad, and use them to get your own damned ruins back. How about it?”

Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck did not reply at once. He was watching another falcon in flight, and that one name was still throbbing in his mind, again and again.

Agnes. Agnes. Agnes . . .

“Yes, why not?” he said in a deliberately casual tone. “A little diversion would do me no harm.” He glanced disparagingly at his father. “And after that you’ll really give me the landsknechts to storm Scharfenberg and Trifels?”

Ludwig von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck nodded. “The landsknechts, a dozen arquebuses, and a couple of my culverins. I give you my word.” He held out his hand. “Shake hands on it, and show me at last that you’re worthy to bear my name.”

Friedrich shook hands and smiled contentedly. He suddenly felt strangely relaxed. He would get his castle back, he would again go searching for the treasure he so longed to find, and someday he would also find Agnes. But first there was hard if not completely unpalatable work to be done.

Work for which emotions were entirely out of place.

 

A week later, a dozen horses were towing a broad sailboat up the Rhine. The sun, high in the sky, made the water glitter like diamonds. Boatmen with necks burned red waved from the many skiffs, barges, and rafts going the other way. It seemed that the terrible war now coming to an end was taking place only on land, where you were still reminded of it by burning villages, the ruins of castles, and trees with corpses hanging from them. Here on the river, however, peace reigned.

Under an awning in the middle of the ship, three travelers dozed in the shade. The two men and the young woman wore expensive but not showy clothing. A brand-new sword belt with its sword dangled by the mast, with a lute of polished maple wood leaning beside it. The crystal carafe of Palatinate wine that stood on a small table between the travelers sparkled in the midday light.

Deep in thought, Agnes reached for her glass and sipped. When she realized how strong the wine was, she put it aside again. She needed all the powers of her mind to make sense of what had happened to her. Her life had changed so much that she sometimes thought she was a completely different person: no longer Agnes von Erfenstein, daughter of the castellan of Trifels, but some kind of shadow being, more likely to have sprung from an old book than from reality.

After the fire in the library at St. Goar, she, Mathis, and Melchior had left the town in a hurry. First, the master of a raft, although he was suspicious, had taken them on board and upstream to Bingen, then they had continued on another vessel to Mainz, which Melchior had visited several times before. He had taken them to see a rich spice merchant who had paid the minstrel over two hundred guilders for one of the books that he had rescued and offered them passage on one of his ships in the bargain. They had stocked up with new clothes and provisions, and the ship was now on its way to the old imperial city of Worms, where its cargo would be unloaded and they would spend the night at a good inn.

Yawning, Melchior rose to his feet, went over to his new lute, and plucked a few strings. The tone was soft and warm.

“A really lovely instrument,” said the minstrel. “Expensive, but worth its price. Like a good woman. I am certainly going to win the laurel wreath at the singers’ contest in the Wartburg with it.” He looked at Agnes with a twinkle in his eyes. “Especially with a ballad in which the identity of a woman who is the last legitimate descendant of the Staufers is revealed. I very much hope you will both accompany me.”

“Forget it!” Agnes snapped. “I’m tired of all this nonsense. It’s enough to know where I come from at last, and who my real parents were. At least my nightmares have stopped since that dreadful fire in the library of St. Goar.”

“But remember, you do have a responsibility,” Melchior told her. “Especially in these dreadful times. Think of what Father Domenicus said to you just before he died. You could be the figure who unites the empire. You and the Holy Lance.”

“Holy Lance,” murmured Agnes. “I don’t want to hear any more about that. How is a single lance supposed to unite an empire?”

“A lance which, incidentally, we still can’t locate,” said Mathis, stretching out where he sat and yawning. Surreptitiously, Agnes looked at him. Over the last few days, the sun had turned his face and neck brown, and strong muscles stood out under his new shirt of fine linen. Mathis had also taken to wearing a pointed beard. The war, and their long journey, had turned the pale youth of the past into a fine figure of a man.

“What’s more, I still have no idea what’s so special about this lance,” Mathis went on morosely. He glanced at Agnes, but she immediately lowered her eyes. “Whenever we were about to talk about it these last few days, you’ve dismissed the subject. Why?”

“Because . . . because all these stories to do with my past are getting me down,” Agnes exclaimed. “Can’t you understand that? Until a week ago I was still an ordinary woman, the daughter of a castellan in the Palatinate, no more. And now, all of a sudden, I’m supposed to be saving the entire German Empire. It’s too much for me.” She sighed. “But yes, let’s talk about it now. I’m sure our minstrel friend will be able to tell us something about the famous Holy Lance.”

Melchior von Tanningen cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed.” He propped his lute against the mast and sat down cross-legged in front of Agnes and Mathis.

“The lance has a long history,” he began. “According to legend, it is the very spear that the Roman centurion Longinus used to pierce the side of the Savior on the cross. The blood that then flowed from Jesus cured Longinus of severe eye trouble, so he had himself baptized and later died a martyr in Caesarea. He is said to have buried the blood of Christ first.”

“I do remember reading about the lance somewhere,” Agnes said thoughtfully. “Oh, of course. In the legend of the Holy Grail. Old King Amfortas guarded both the lance and the Grail itself in the Grail Castle.”

Melchior nodded. “As the lance bore the Savior’s blood, it is venerated to this day and immortalized in stories. In fact all that was preserved of it was the iron head of the spear, about the length of a man’s forearm, and it also has a nail from the cross in it. The relic is considered the most sacred of the German imperial insignia. I’ve read about it in several books, and the rest of the insignia as well.”

“The imperial insignia, did you say?” Agnes looked at him in surprise. “The holy objects necessary for the coronation of the emperor?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Father Tristan told me about the imperial insignia some while ago, because they were kept at Trifels Castle for several centuries. And now I do remember that he mentioned the Holy Lance.” Agnes frowned. “But if it is really so sacred, couldn’t it be that Constanza and Johann simply took it with them when they escaped?”

Melchior von Tanningen smiled knowingly. He picked up his lute and struck a few soft chords as he went on: “The lance is the most powerful of all those relics, more powerful than the imperial cross, sword, and orb combined. It is said that anyone carrying it in battle is invincible. King Otto threw back the Hungarians at the battle of Lechfeld with it, and it has brought glorious victories to other commanders as well. Without the Holy Lance, no one can be crowned Holy Roman Emperor.”

“But if Constanza and Johann stole the lance long ago and hid it somewhere, then how have coronations been carried out ever since?” asked Mathis, baffled.

“How do you think?” The minstrel looked inquiringly at them. “What would you have done in the Habsburgs’ place?”

“I . . . I would have forged it?” Agnes suggested.

“That’s probably what happened.” The minstrel struck a dramatic final chord and put the lute down again. “If what Father Domenicus said is true, then the theft had major consequences for the empire. Its loss would have made all coronations since the time of Albrecht von Habsburg null and void. Meaning that no Habsburg ever occupied the throne legitimately, and that includes the present emperor, Charles V.”

For some time no one said anything, and only the sound of the river running by was to be heard, along with the boatmen’s shouting. Melchior grinned mischievously and finally turned to Agnes.

“Now do you understand what power that relic could have in the hands of the right person? If you and the Holy Lance appear with me at the Wartburg, in the presence of all the princes, dukes, counts, and barons, who are already shaken out of their sense of security by the war, a storm will arise and sweep the Habsburgs away from the imperial throne. That much is certain.”

Agnes laughed quietly. “And how do you see that happening? Even if we do find this relic—am I to walk into the Wartburg with you saying I’m a descendant of the Staufers and, incidentally, this is the Holy Lance? We’d be ridiculed, and probably burned at the stake for heresy.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of stories.” Melchior poured some of the deep red wine into his goblet and clicked his tongue appreciatively. “We also have the ring, and most important of all the deed, certified by Emperor Frederick himself. With my ballad, all that would convey a strong message to the princes. They’ve never been really close to Emperor Charles anyway. It is difficult to rule a large, disunited empire such as that of the German lands from Spain.”

Now Mathis spoke up. “Do you mean Agnes could lay claim to the imperial throne?” He shook his head incredulously. “Are you serious?”

Melchior shrugged his shoulders. “Not Agnes personally, as a woman. But at the side of a powerful prince . . .”

“Oh, let’s have no more of this,” Agnes interrupted furiously. “I’m not to be sold off like a filly at the horse market. Not even to a prince.” She looked angrily at Mathis. “To the devil with the Staufers and this Holy Lance. I’d have expected a little more sympathy from you, at least.”

“But I didn’t . . .” Mathis began. However, Agnes had turned away and gone to the ship’s rail. She stared discontentedly at the river, sparkling in the sun. Far above her, some of the boatmen clambered around in the rigging, while back in the stern, the steersman shouted his orders, but she perceived it all as though divided from it by a wall. She was both irate and confused. At heart, she did not know what to do next. She couldn’t return to Trifels if she didn’t want to expose herself to the power of her vengeful husband. And as for accompanying Melchior to this singers’ contest, to tell everyone that she was a descendant of the Staufers, that was out of the question. So far they had decided only to travel up the Rhine, without any other definite destination in mind. Clearly Melchior and Mathis wanted to give her time to come to terms with her situation. For the minstrel, the search for the Holy Lance was surely the high point of their adventures together, and he fervently hoped to have it with him at the Wartburg. As for Mathis, was he with her because he loved her, or only for the sake of a rusty old lance?

All at once she heard footsteps behind her and felt a strong hand on her shoulder. It was Mathis. He now leaned over the rail beside her, looking out at the water. They were passing a small village with a church and several houses thatched with reeds. All at once, Agnes longed for a quiet life, far from war, castles, and old tales of chivalry.

“I . . . I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” Mathis hesitantly began. “This is all rather too much for me as well. The last year has been eventful enough for an entire lifetime, if not two.” He chuckled. Then, taking her hand, he pressed it. “Believe me, if there’s anything I think worth fighting for, it’s not that damned lance, it’s you.”

Agnes smiled to herself, but she still did not look at him. Mathis and she had come very close to one another during the last week. Only yesterday they had made love, hidden behind some casks, and it had been wonderful. As time passed, Agnes’s fear of men had receded. The face of Barnabas seldom appeared in her dreams now, and she no longer flinched at any touch, however hesitant. Mathis had taken great trouble to be gentle and considerate with her, and her love for him had grown more and more. All the same, she was not quite sure of him yet.

“I like to hear you say that,” she replied at last. “Although I can’t really imagine you growing old beside me without fighting, or at least standing up for freedom and justice. You wouldn’t be the Mathis I know.” She sighed, and looked at him at last. “Why can’t we leave these tedious old stories behind us? Get off this ship somewhere and start a new life. So much has changed in the country now. So many people have died, so many have left their old homes. A young smith with a woman beside him must be needed somewhere. It wouldn’t have to be guns that you forged.”

Mathis smiled. “Never fear, I’m cured of guns. I’d rather turn to horseshoes and plowshares.” His expression suddenly changed as he stared sadly at another village on the bank, where several thatched roofs were burning. Smoke drifted through the air to them. Three dead men hung from the branches of a willow right above the river.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Word of honor?”

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

“Then . . . yes. Agreed.”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

She couldn’t do it.

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

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

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

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

Welcome, Agnes . . .

She shook herself, and the blackness went away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

✦ ✦ ✦

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

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

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

Black charcoal. Green moss. Red blood.

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

The blood is her own.

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

But she said nothing.

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

Hunger and thirst.

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

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

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

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

The place where enmity is no more.

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

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

✦ ✦ ✦

 

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

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

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

The place where enmity is no more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

When Mathis finally put his head above the bushes, the sight he saw hit him like a blow.

Not far from the well tower, campfires were burning at regular intervals, with men in colorful clothes sitting around them, talking, laughing, and passing wine jugs around. There must be over fifty mercenaries. Many spears were driven into the ground. Among them Mathis saw several medium-weight guns, with piles of stone balls in front of them. Soldiers’ songs wafted through the air to the forest. No doubt about it, Trifels Castle was under siege.

“So Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck has decided to reclaim his castle after all,” said Melchior, who had crawled out of the brushwood with Mathis. “Look at that!”

He pointed to a banner rammed into the ground; it had a crowned lion rampant on it. Mathis knew that coat of arms from the siege of the Ramburg a year ago, and now he also saw the red and blue tent standing beside it. A slight figure was emerging from the tent at that very moment, barking out a few orders. The voice could be heard all the way to the outskirts of the forest, and it caught Mathis’s attention.

“Damn it all, that really is the count,” he whispered. “Now it will be twice as difficult to get into Trifels and look for any clues to the hiding place of the Holy Lance.”

“Twice as difficult, or maybe downright impossible,” replied Melchior, looking thoughtfully at the tent, weighing their chances. “We could have taken on a few peasants at a pinch, but a whole troop of landsknechts? These men don’t look as though this is their first siege.”

Mathis narrowed his eyes so as to make out more details in the firelight. Sure enough, all the landsknechts were armed with long daggers, spears, and short swords. He saw some long two-handed swords as well. The artillery also looked impressive. The besiegers had three falconets, a large culverin, and one of the large cannon known as nightingales, which fired balls of up to fifty pounds. The storming of the castle clearly had not begun yet, for Mathis saw several unfinished fieldworks near Trifels, but the smithy and several of the surrounding buildings had been burned down. He could only hope that his mother and sister had reached safety in time.

For a while, Mathis studied the little army camp in silence, and then he nodded firmly. “Well, that’s it, then,” he said quietly. “We can’t get into Trifels, and obviously Agnes can’t help us there. Thinking that dreams and childhood memories could tell us where to find the Holy Lance was a crazy idea anyway.” He shook his head. “Now I’m going to try to find my family to say goodbye to them, and then Agnes and I will be off somewhere else. I ought to have done that long ago.”

Melchior von Tanningen smiled ironically, but for the first time there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. “Throwing your ideals overboard so soon? Only a day ago, you were convinced that with the aid of the Holy Lance and Florian Geyer this war could yet be won. And suddenly all that’s worth nothing?”

“It was a mistake. I see that now.” Mathis stood up. “All I really want to win is Agnes.”

Without another word, he turned away and went back into the forest, pushing branches and twigs aside angrily and marching down the slope, not even looking to see whether Melchior was following him. Thoughts raced through his head like dark clouds in a hurricane. How had he let himself be carried away by the idea that an old lance was more important than the only girl he had ever loved? Agnes had positively begged for the two of them to go away together, but no, he had thought of nothing but his sublime ideals. He’d go down on his knees and beg her to forgive him.

With his head bent, Mathis went on through the forest. He had been walking for about half an hour when, suddenly, he heard a scream. It came from the very direction where he and Melchior had left Agnes.

Mathis felt his heart racing. He began to run as he heard another shrill scream. This time he was sure that it had been Agnes. He remembered how she had been dragged on board that boat in Albersweiler, and then disappeared into the darkness.

Oh God, not again. Please let me get to her this time before it’s too late.

Mathis was sorry now that he had set off in such a hurry, without Melchior von Tanningen. He could only hope that the minstrel was not too far behind him. He was going faster and faster. Several times he stumbled over roots and thorn bushes in the darkness, recovered himself, and ran on, until he could suddenly see two figures beyond the trees not far away. In the moonlight, they were bending over something that kicked and struck out like a captured animal.

“Agnes, Agnes!” cried Mathis, beside himself. Without another thought he ran toward the two men and flung himself on them. One of the pair, a sturdy peasant in a torn doublet, fell to the ground.

“What the devil?” he growled, but Mathis had already smashed both fists into his face. Whimpering and bleeding, the man lay there, while Mathis snatched up a stick from the ground and ran at the second peasant with it, shouting. For a moment the man hesitated, and then he turned and disappeared among the pines in the darkness.

Panting, Mathis turned to Agnes, who was cowering in a dip in the ground for protection and had her hands in front of her face. When he touched her, she flinched as if from a whiplash.

“It’s me, Agnes,” he said softly. “Everything will be all right. This time I reached you, this time . . .”

There was a crunching sound right behind him. Before Mathis could spin around, something hit him on the back of the head and a thousand stars exploded in his head.

He collapsed sideways like a felled tree. The last thing he saw was a dark outline rushing at him.

“Go to hell, traitor!” cried a voice.

Then a tied leather shoe hit him in the face.

 

Count Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck was sitting at table, a leg of wild boar larded with bacon in front of him, listening to the singing of the landsknechts outside his tent. He loved their warlike songs about wine, women, the lust to kill, and a short but satisfactory life. They were full of hatred, which was the strongest emotion he knew. He used his knife to cut the sinews of the meat while, with relish, he summoned up his latest memories.

His men had fallen on the counties of Löwenstein and Scharfeneck like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. They had burned down half the houses in every village and hanged five men chosen by lot. The landsknechts had trampled down the fields with their horses and taken away the seed corn and the last cows as feudal dues, while the children and women screamed, flinging themselves to the ground and begging for mercy.

No mercy had been shown.

That sense of absolute power had allowed Friedrich to forget his anger with Agnes for a while. With every order he gave, with every blow or kick, Friedrich was also striking at his own father, who all his life had made him feel that he was the last in a long line of Scharfenecks, and not much was to be expected of him: a motherless boy who grew up surrounded by dusty books in which great men fought great battles.

Now he was fighting a battle of his own. He was no chivalrous hero, no King Arthur, but a rampaging avenger, and that was at least as good.

If not even better.

Lost in thought, Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck carved up the leg of wild boar. He cut it smaller and smaller, until it was in tatters. Meanwhile he thought of what he would do to the peasants when he had finally recaptured Trifels. Yesterday he had taken back Scharfenberg Castle in short order. There had been few guards posted, and the state in which Friedrich had found his expensive furnishings and tapestries had not improved his temper.

Now was the time to take his revenge. His father had kept his word and given him fifty landsknechts and the artillery for another month. More than enough time to take Trifels, where he already knew the terrain only too well after searching for the Norman treasure. Tomorrow morning they would begin the attack. They would storm the makeshift castle gates, climb the low dilapidated walls on the east side with siege ladders, and then make short work of the peasants.

Friedrich would spare only Shepherd Jockel, their leader, for later. The hunchback would have to pay for that brief but shameful moment of his flight from Trifels, and pay with a different sort of pain.

His fork scooped up a few more of the fibrous pieces of meat. Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck put one in his mouth and began to chew. Maybe he could contrive to keep some of the landsknechts on at Trifels as mercenaries. Then he could send out a punishment squad into the district from that base, a squad of which the peasants would tell tales for a long time to come. They would never rise against their masters again.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, Excellency.”

Annoyed, the count looked up from his meal and saw one of his deputies at the entrance to the tent. The man with the big nose had been a good bloodhound these last few weeks, but now there was a spark of something like fear in his eyes.

“What is it?” asked Friedrich curtly.

“You have a visitor, Excellency. A guest.”

“I don’t intend to receive guests today. The man would have to come from the emperor himself.”

The landsknecht cleared his throat. “Well, that’s it,” he hesitantly replied. “He does come from the emperor. There’s a letter and a seal to prove it. I think you . . . you should see him.”

“How dare you . . .”

At that moment a figure pushed past the guard and entered the tent. With a slight bow, the man finally stood in front of the count. When Friedrich recognized him, he didn’t know at first whether to have him broken on the wheel or offer his humble salutations.

Friedrich von Löwenstein-Scharfeneck might be a little crazy, but he was not stupid.

He therefore decided on the latter course of action.

 

Mathis was awoken by a kick and a torrent of cold water. His head was still ringing from the blow that the peasant had struck him. With difficulty, he tried to open his eyes, but they were gummed up with something. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own congealed blood.

With a low groan, he passed his hand over his swollen face. At least he could now manage to peer through narrow slits and see where he was. Clearly he was in the Knights’ House at Trifels, its floor covered with dirty rushes. In the light of several torches and braziers, he vaguely saw about a dozen peasants standing around him in a circle, staring down at him. Agnes was nowhere to be seen, nor was Melchior. The minstrel had hopefully managed to disappear in the forest.

Someone was lounging in the background on a chair made of woven strips of willow, near the smoking hearth, but the man was too far off for Mathis to see him. Mathis tried to stand up, but he immediately collapsed again.

Where is Agnes? Where . . . ?

“Help that dog back on his feet and bring him here so that I can see his treacherous face.”

Hearing that cutting voice, Mathis knew at once who the man in the chair was. Two peasants seized him and dragged him over to the throne made of fur and willow on which Shepherd Jockel sat with his legs crossed.

“Well, well, so we meet again,” said the peasant leader, thoughtfully examining his dirty fingernails. “Homesick, were you?” Only now did he look into Mathis’s bloodshot eyes. “What did the count say to get you to show him secret passages into the castle, eh?”

“Where . . . is . . . Agnes?” Mathis gasped, without answering Jockel’s question. A glance out of the window showed him that it was still dark night. The campfires of the besiegers shone on the other side of the wall.

Shepherd Jockel raised his eyebrows. “The count’s whore? I’ve already had her thrown into the dungeon. You’re going there too, while I decide what to do with you. You traitor!” He jumped up and pointed at the stooped figure of Mathis, who still had to be held up by the two peasants. “This man left us to join the enemy,” he proclaimed. “He’s killed dozens of you, and now he’s come back to tell the count how to get into this castle.”

“That . . . that’s not . . . true.” Mathis began, but Shepherd Jockel kicked him in the stomach, so that he collapsed, groaning.

“Do you see what I do with traitors?” Jockel went on in a calmer voice. “I know there are some of us who want to give up. They don’t believe that victory is within reach. But I’ve sent for troops. It won’t be long now. Bands of peasants will soon be hurrying to our aid from all over the Palatinate, indeed all over the empire. This is Trifels, the center of the Holy Roman Empire! We’ll set out from here to the last battle, and we’ll yet win this war.”

“It’s . . . lost,” Mathis groaned.

Jockel, startled, looked at him. “What did you say?”

“The . . . war . . . is lost.”

For a while, the peasant leader seemed to be deprived of speech. Then, finally he struck out at Mathis like a man deranged.

“You accursed traitor,” he said furiously. “Sowing lies and discord. I distrusted you all along, and I was right. You were always on the side of the lords and masters. That little whore corrupted you. Tell me what the count is planning to do out there, or—”

“I . . . don’t . . . know,” Mathis managed to gasp. “By God, I really don’t know.” Jockel’s blows had struck him in the face, the stomach, and the loins. The pain was so savage that he was on the point of losing consciousness.

“The oath of a traitor.” Jockel looked around at a dozen or so peasants who watched the spectacle with a mixture of fright and obsequiousness. “Of course he knows. And I know how to get it out of him.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Bring the two of them in. We’ll celebrate a delightful reunion.”

Some of the peasants hurried out, and soon returned with two trembling figures whose heads were wrapped in cloth. Jockel snatched the ragged fabric away, and Mathis groaned aloud.

The two were his mother and his little sister, Marie.

They both looked reasonably well, although there were bruises on Martha Wielenbach’s face. Her skirt and bodice were torn, like someone had been pulling at her clothes. Marie’s face was red and swollen with tears, and her nose was running. She looked as though she had been crying for hours.

“Mathis!” his mother sobbed. “Dear Mathis, you’re alive! But for God’s sake, why—”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” Jockel barked. “So far we’ve treated the pair of you well. At least as well as anyone can treat the family of a traitor. You’ve had food and drink. But that could come to an end . . .”

He paused, and winked at Mathis.

“You always were a stubborn bastard, Mathis,” he went on, in an almost friendly tone. “Clever, but stubborn. So how am I to hurt you if you do nothing but keep your mouth shut or lie to me? I have a better idea.” He went over to little Marie, who was whimpering, and ran his hand through her matted hair. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to change your mind, Mathis. If you’re still as obstinate then, I’ll hang your little sister from the battlements until she’s black and blue in the face. Then it will be your mother’s turn, and you’ll have to watch her slowly choke to death.” He looked pityingly at Martha Wielenbach, who was weeping bitterly with her hands over her face. “I am afraid that war sometimes calls for cruel measures,” Jockel said pompously. “But those who want paradise on earth must walk through hell at times to get there.” He sat down on his throne again and snapped his fingers.

“Now, take this fellow away. I feel sick to my stomach at the sight of him.”

 

Agnes crouched deep down in the keep, staring at the darkness. The shivering fits that had been attacking her since she was captured had begun to die down now, but her breath still came fast and uneven. She had tried to weep, but her throat was constricted. Was this to be the end? Had she traveled so far only to die in the dungeon of her own castle?

Buried alive, like Constanza, she thought. Why did I come here?

Trying to take her mind off her predicament, Agnes massaged her joints and the place where her feet were bound. Her limbs hurt from being tied up by the peasants and then dragged through the undergrowth. With her and Mathis, who had been knocked unconscious, they had taken secret ways past the ranks of landsknechts and then, finally, into the castle. Seeing one of the banners waving above the attackers’ camp, in the light of their campfires, she had been horrified to realize that it was under siege by her husband’s men. She had not seen Mathis since; she still did not know what the peasants were doing to him, or whether he was even alive.

Agnes closed her eyes and thought of the few happy moments they had spent with one another since their reunion in the army camp near Ingolstadt. It looked as if those moments were the end of their time together.

Above her there was a square stone shaft with a stone slab over the top of it. At a height of twelve feet, narrow strips of moonlight fell in through two slits in the east wall of the keep. Agnes remembered standing up above on the other side of those slits, more than a year ago, talking to Mathis through them. He had been imprisoned in this dark, dank hole for over two weeks. After only about an hour, she felt that her rib cage was constricted as if all the stones of the keep were weighing down on her. She also had a clammy sensation, a steady throbbing that could lead up to a fainting fit. On her brief visit to Mathis in here last year, she had felt the same, just as she had in Speyer Cathedral, when she and her father visited the corpulent merchant Jakob Gutknecht. Agnes shook herself to drive away the wave of faintness.

What in heaven’s name does this castle want from me?

All at once she heard a scraping noise up above, the stone slab was pushed aside, and the broad face of a peasant showed at the opening. He shone a torch down into the depths below.

“Hey there, count’s whore,” he shouted. “Ready to hold your first audience in your wonderful throne room? Here comes the handsome prince. But don’t touch him or he’ll fall to pieces entirely.”

There was laughter, and then two of the peasants let down a figure hanging lifeless as a puppet in a loop of rope. Blood dripped on Agnes.

The man’s face was so badly beaten that it took her a moment to realize that it was Mathis. His clothing was torn, his head lolled forward. He looked like a hanged man.

“You murderers!” Agnes yelled up to the two peasants. “What have you done to him?”

“Never fear, he’s still alive. Jockel is keeping him for later.” Suddenly the moon-faced peasant raised his voice in a threatening tone that echoed through the walls. “But if his lordship your husband thinks he can storm Trifels, we’ll make short work of the pair of you. Then we’ll see what his whore and her fancy man are worth to the count.”

He laughed and spat into the shaft. Then he let go of the rope, so that Mathis fell like a stone for the last few feet. He groaned softly as they put the slab back in place.

“My God, Mathis! What have they done to you?” Agnes crawled toward him and cradled his head in her lap. Her eyes were well enough accustomed to the darkness now for her to see his face more clearly.

Mathis’s lips were split, and his nose and mouth covered with congealed blood. Agnes cautiously felt his skull and his cheekbones, but apart from a large lump on the back of his head she could find no major cause for anxiety. The peasants had been rough with Mathis, but at least he would survive.

Or he’ll survive these injuries, she thought in fear. But not what they’re going to do to us later. Unless we can find some way out . . .

She reached for a bucket containing a little clouded, stinking water and washed Mathis’s face. He was quaking with pain and cold. With difficulty, he looked up at her.

“I’m so sorry, Agnes,” he said hoarsely. “Why didn’t I listen to you? We never ought to have come back to Trifels.” Mathis coughed and spat out a broken tooth. “I . . . I love you. But now it’s too late.”

“At least we are together,” said Agnes softly, stroking his hair, encrusted as it was with blood and dirt. “It probably had to be this way. It was Trifels, you see. It called to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dreamed of it again, Mathis. Of Trifels and Constanza. Just before the peasants found me. Your idea really did work.” Quietly, she told Mathis about her dream, about Constanza walled up in the castle, and the strange phrase that she could not get out of her head.

“The place where enmity is no more,” she murmured at last. “I wonder what Constanza meant by that?”

Mathis coughed again. “Never mind what it means, we’ll never find out now, or at least not in this life.”

“You’re forgetting that my hated husband is at the gates of this castle,” Agnes pointed out. “He may not exactly love me ardently, but if we hold out here for a little while, then—”

“Agnes, listen to me.” Mathis laboriously sat up. “My mother and my sister are up there. Jockel is threatening to execute them if I don’t tell him what your husband’s plans are. He thinks I know about a hidden tunnel of some kind. But I know no such thing. I am dreadfully sorry for getting us into this situation. Believe me, I don’t care about my own life, but I do care about the lives of my family.” He looked pleadingly at her with his swollen eyes. “You may curse me, Agnes, but if you know anything, maybe a second escape tunnel, a hidden crawl space, any kind of damned mouse hole, then tell me now, for the sake of my mother and my sister.”

“By God, I wish I could help them, but I don’t know any other way out.” Agnes stared into the void. Once again, she felt close to fainting. “All I know is that Constanza was walled up alive somewhere in Trifels Castle.” She hesitated. “And, strange as it sounds, I feel that the place can’t be far from here.”

Mathis laughed in desperation. “What a comfort. Imprisoned where your ancestress—”

Suddenly he stopped short, thunderstruck. He straightened up until he could drag himself on his knees to the western wall of the dungeon, where he immediately began searching frantically in the straw.

“What are you doing?” asked Agnes.

“Looking for something. Something I found when I was in here before, but I quite forgot it later.” Without any more explanation, he went on feeling the floor and the wall. At last he stopped. “Ah, here it is!”

Mathis had pushed the straw aside, and now he pointed to a spot on the wall. When he tapped it, the stone made a suspiciously hollow sound.

“A stone was set into the wall here,” he excitedly explained. “And if I remember correctly, there was a Latin inscription on it.” He felt for it and finally nodded, satisfied. “Here it is.”

With her heart beating unsteadily, Agnes got close to the wall and knelt in front of it. It was still dark in the dungeon, but Mathis gently took her hand and guided it until she could feel the words engraved on the stone. After passing her fingers over it a couple of times, Agnes thought she knew what it said.

ALBERTUS FACIEBAT LEONES EXPULSOS ESSE . . .

“Albertus caused the lions to be banished,” she murmured. “What in God’s name does that mean?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that a stone was set into the wall of the dungeon here, and the space behind it presumably goes on farther.” Mathis knocked again at the stone block. His excitement obviously helped him to forget his pain for a while. “When you said just now that Constanza was buried alive somewhere near here, it came back to me. I wanted to blow the block out of place with gunpowder, don’t you remember? Why didn’t we think of it before? This is the dungeon of Trifels Castle. Way back in the past, Barbarossa’s son Henry kept his captives here. There may well be a passage leading from here to another chamber.”

“Albertus faciebat leones expulsos esse,” said Agnes, repeating the words of the inscription quietly. She shrugged her shoulders. “That word faciebat often occurs on memorials, so that people will know who set them up. Maybe some stonemason was immortalizing himself here, or . . .” Agnes stopped in amazement. She felt herself begin to tingle all over with excitement.

Can it really be true? Is it as simple as that? Or am I beginning to dream in broad daylight?

“Of course.” she said. “It really does refer to Constanza. The lions, it’s the lions that stand for her.”

“The lions?” Mathis asked, baffled.

“Well, the lions are on the Hohenstaufen coat of arms. Do you see? It’s a riddle.” The words were tumbling out of Agnes now, as she went on interpreting the inscription. “The lions, meaning the Staufers, were banished to Trifels, with Constanza as their last legitimate descendant.”

“But then who is Albertus?”

Agnes smiled. “Albertus is the Latin form of Albrecht. And if I remember what Father Tristan told me correctly, Albrecht was the German king of the Habsburg family who ordered Constanza to be put to death. So Albrecht was making sure that the Hohenstaufen lion would be banished behind these walls for ever. Albertus faciebat leones expulsos esse . . .” She reverently stroked the block. “My ancestress’s grave is behind this stone,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it. We really have found the place.”

Agnes closed her eyes, feeling a strange sense of peace come over her. All at once she was sure she had finally come to the end of her long journey. The fever that had been troubling her for two days was making her shiver, and once again a soft voice purred inside her head.

The voice of Trifels.

The circle is closing, Agnes. It all began here at Trifels Castle, and this is where it will all end. Even though it is not the end you would have wished for, is it?

Agnes turned away, with a laugh of desperation. “How ironic. We really have found the entrance to Constanza’s grave, but we can’t reach her. We’ll never be able to move this stone.”

“Not us, but maybe someone else will.” Mathis twisted his battered face into a grin, showing a wide gap between his teeth. “For instance, Jockel and his men.”

Agnes looked at him, baffled. “Jockel? Why would he want to help us?”

“Well, if we tell Jockel about our discovery, he’ll certainly want to know what’s just beyond this dungeon. He’ll begin digging. At least we’ll gain a little time that way.” Gingerly, Mathis leaned back against the slab. “And in our situation, time is very, very valuable.”

 

About an hour later, Shepherd Jockel stood in the dungeon, thoughtfully feeling the edges of the stone slab. He had let himself down into the depths with three of his peasants, all of them carrying picks and shovels. A few lanterns cast light on the interior of the cell, so that the stone and its inscription were now clearly in view.

“A walled-up escape tunnel, eh?” Jockel grinned at Mathis. “So you obviously did think of something after all. I knew you wouldn’t let your family down.”

“Are my mother and my sister all right?” Mathis asked without responding to Jockel’s suggestion. He and Agnes had decided not to tell the peasants the true purpose of the tunnel. A noblewoman’s grave would be of far less interest to the rebels than the possibility of escaping Count Scharfeneck and his landsknechts at the last moment. By now, even a fanatic like Jockel would have realized that he could not hold the castle.

“Your family are all right, at least so long as you’re not trying to fool us.” Jockel looked at him sharply. “Here, how did you know about this slab?”

“I was imprisoned here once before, you know,” Mathis replied truthfully. “I couldn’t move the block out of place at the time, but now it’s different.” He indicated the three peasants standing expectantly in the background with their tools. “What are you waiting for?”

Jockel signaled to the men, and they began loosening the masonry and plaster around the slab. It soon became clear that the heavy stone, about the thickness of a man’s arm, was set deep into the ground where it met the floor. Above it there was a small slit now walled up with bricks. When the peasants broke out the upper bricks, damp, musty air blew through into Mathis’s face.

The crack that Father Domenicus mentioned, he thought. The crack through which Constanza could be heard moaning and singing until she died. The dean was right.

“This is hard work, Jockel,” grumbled one of the peasants, tugging at the slab. It was the moon-faced man who had let Mathis down into the dungeon a few hours ago. “This thing won’t shift from the ground, not without a hell of a lot of digging.”

“Then for God’s sake, dig,” Jockel hissed. “Or do you want the landsknechts cutting your throats a couple of hours from now?”

“But you said other bands of peasants were coming to help us.”

“So they are. But meanwhile it wouldn’t be a bad idea to . . . er, have another plan up our sleeve. It’s all to do with the trade of warfare. You wouldn’t understand that.”

Muttering, the peasants went on with their work, while Jockel glanced suspiciously at Agnes. For some time now the castellan’s daughter had been leaning back against the opposite wall as she sat hunched on the floor, her eyes closed. Mathis was not sure whether it was because of the fever that had clearly been troubling Agnes for some time. Since they had been down in this dungeon, though, she had seemed to be in another world.

“What’s the matter with her?” Jockel asked Mathis. “Is my lady the countess sick? Doesn’t she fancy the air down here?”

“You can see yourself that she isn’t at all well,” Mathis replied. “She has a fever, and she’s in pain. I expect your stupid peasants were too rough with her.”

Jockel gave a thin-lipped smile. “That’s nothing compared to the pain I’ll inflict on her if her husband really dares to storm Trifels. We sent a message to the landsknechts’ camp. The count knows his whore is here. And he knows what we’ll do to her if he lifts so much as a finger against us.”

Mathis did not reply but looked solicitously at Agnes. Did her fainting fits and her absence of mind have anything to do with the fact that they were approaching the grave of her ancestress? Was such a thing possible?

The next half hour passed in silence. The peasants dug, breathing heavily, driving their picks deep into the ground, until there was a hole over three feet deep beside the stone block. At last it could be shifted slightly.

“Get it out,” Jockel ordered, rubbing his hands together, positively quaking with excitement. “Let’s see what’s behind it.”

Puffing and panting, the peasants raised the heavy block and finally let it crash to the ground, where it broke into several pieces. A low-roofed passage came into view where it had stood. The musty smell was so strong now that the men covered their faces with their hands.

“Aha, welcome to the gates of hell,” Jockel grinned. “The way this passage smells, no one’s used it for a long time. All the better.”

Only a moment later, a muted clap of thunder shook the dungeon. The peasants cried out and looked fearfully up to where the noise had come from.

“Holy Mother Mary—the devil!” Moonface screamed. “We’ve woken the devil!”

“Don’t worry,” Jockel reassured them. “It’s only the guns of the besiegers. Sounds like the storming of the castle has begun.” He tried to smile and did not entirely succeed. “But Trifels Castle has held out against worse, right? So come on. We don’t have much time left.”

But he looked anxiously up at the shaft, for screams and more firing could now be heard. It sounded like some of the landsknechts were already inside the lower bailey. The hunchback was about to start along the dark tunnel when a clear, loud voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Get back, all of you. I will be the first to enter this passage.”

Astonished, Mathis looked around at Agnes, who approached the entrance with new self-confidence. She seemed to have awoken from a long sleep.

“If we must walk this way, I go first,” she said firmly. “I owe it to my forebears.”

“Forebears? What nonsense are you talking?” Jockel looked at her, taken aback. “And how do you think you’re speaking to me anyway, woman?” He raised his hand to strike her. “I’ll teach you what it means to arouse the wrath of the peasants, you . . .” But he stopped, and smiled unpleasantly, “Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s really better for our princess to go first. That passage looks damned old. It can’t hurt to have someone go ahead in case it falls in.” He seized Agnes by the chin and pulled her to him. “But don’t forget, countess, I’m right behind you. One false step, and this passage is your grave.”

“Isn’t it my grave already?” Agnes replied quietly. Then she freed herself from him and disappeared into the darkness. Jockel and Mathis followed her, with the three peasants carrying lanterns after them.

As Mathis, stooping, went along the low-roofed passage, he thought again of the self-confidence that Agnes had just shown. Almost as if someone else were speaking through her. What in the world, he wondered, was going on? Painfully, he hit his head on an overhanging rock and staggered on. The tunnel ran straight for about thirty feet then turned sharp right before finally widening out. Here, parts of the walls and roof were supported by rotting wooden props and joists, and a few rats scurried away between Mathis’s feet. Soon they stood at the entrance to another chamber; its extent could not be made out easily in the darkness. The thunder of the guns resounded from somewhere above them.

“Get on with it, bring up those lanterns,” Jockel called to his men. “Or are you going to wait until the whole place falls in?”

When the peasants had finally brought their lanterns to the front of the party, Mathis held his breath. This room was far larger than the dungeon, more of a great hall. Water dripped from the high ceiling, and Mathis guessed that they were underneath the well tower. The floor was weathered marble. But it was the walls that were truly extraordinary. All four of them bore the remnants of a huge fresco. Although the paintings were faded, Mathis could tell that they depicted German kings and emperors. There were about two dozen of them, each with a crown on his head and dressed in richly decorated robes whose colors had flaked off long ago. Some held a sword, others a scepter, a Bible, or an imperial orb. The whole place was like a vast underground mausoleum.

One of the rulers in particular caught Mathis’s eye. He was very tall, with a long, red beard, and his right hand held a mighty spear. The man’s name was written clearly above his flowing hair.

Fridericus Barbarossa Imperator.

“Emperor Redbeard and the Holy Lance,” Mathis whispered, staring at the portrait, fascinated. He shook his head in astonishment. “Who’d have thought? So the legend is true, or at least the kernel of it. Barbarossa really does sleep under Trifels Castle.”

“Damn it, what’s all this?” That was Shepherd Jockel’s agitated voice. “Where have we ended up? This is no escape tunnel, it’s more like a crypt. Speak up, countess. Where have you brought us?”

He made for Agnes, who was kneeling in front of one wall with several bleached bones directly before her. They bore a distant resemblance to the figure of a human being. Tiny scraps of fabric and matted hair still clung to them. Agnes picked the bones up and passed them through her fingers. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she seemed not to hear the shouting of the peasant leader.

“I want to know where we are,” Jockel demanded.

He struck Agnes a blow that knocked her sideways, but she did not cry out. Instead, she slowly straightened up and looked Jockel so firmly in the face that he involuntarily flinched back. The cannon still rumbled overhead.

“This is the grave of my ancestress Constanza, the daughter of Enzio, grandson of the great Emperor Frederick II,” Agnes said, pointing to the verdigris-tinged bones before her. She was like a woman in a trance, and her dreamy voice clearly terrified the three peasants in the background. “She was tortured and walled up alive here at Trifels. Kneel down and pray before her bones. We must give her a worthy burial.”

For a split second it looked as though the peasants really would kneel down reverently. But then Jockel’s bleating laugh was heard.

“I piss on your ancestors, count’s whore,” the peasant leader said. “I piss on you and the airs you put on. We’re not your inferiors anymore; that time is over.” He kicked the pale bones, scattering them in all directions. “I don’t need a burial chamber, I need a passage to get me out of here.” He seized Agnes by the throat so violently that she began to retch, but her gaze was still as steady and fearless as before. “Tell me, does that passage exist?” Jockel screeched. “Tell me, before I hurt you more than anyone has ever hurt you before.”

“There’s no passage, but there is something else,” Mathis interjected. “A sacred object, and very valuable. We hoped to discover where to find it down here. Let us go free, and you can have it.”

“What?” Jockel let go of Agnes, who fell to the floor, gasping, and lay there dazed. The peasant leader stared suspiciously at Mathis. “What are you talking about?”

The three other peasants still had not moved from the side of the room. They didn’t seem to know what frightened them more: the roar of the guns above them, or the secret chamber and this woman talking to them like a spirit.

“It’s the Holy Lance,” said Mathis, turning to Jockel and raising his hands to placate him. “Give me a little time, and I’ll explain everything.”

“I’ll give you until the next cannonball strikes up there, so hurry. And by God, don’t you try to put one over on me.”

Mathis took a deep breath and then quickly told Shepherd Jockel the whole story. He left out how he and Agnes had come by this knowledge, as well as that Agnes was a direct descendant of the Staufers. The Holy Lance would mean more to Jockel than this ancient story. Meanwhile Agnes crouched by the wall of the chamber as if in a stupor.

“Is this lance really so powerful?” Jockel asked.

Mathis nodded. “It is the most powerful relic in Christendom, and said to make its bearer invincible. Many battles have been won with it in the past. And so, maybe, the peasants will win their own battles in the near future,” he added conspiratorially. “How does that sound, Jockel? You leading a peasant army, with the Holy Lance in your hand? You might be able to decide the outcome of the war for our side after all.”

He paused, watching Jockel, and seeing the greed in his eyes. Mathis did not know whether the hunchback really believed the lance would make him leader of all the peasants—but at least Jockel was thoughtfully biting his lip. He glanced at his three companions, who were staring at him as if he were the Messiah in person, and finally brought out an answer.

“Well, well, that does sound interesting,” Jockel hesitantly began. He jumped when another stone cannonball hit the staterooms of the castle above them. “But I don’t see any lance here. Only a few bones and faded old paintings. So where is this powerful weapon?”

“You fool, weren’t you listening? Constanza and Johann hid it.” Agnes said. She had risen and stood upright in the middle of the room, with the scattered bones of her ancestress around her. Mathis swallowed at the sight of her. It was as if the discovery of Constanza’s grave had turned her into someone else. Agnes suddenly seemed much older and more mature, and she looked like a queen personified. Even Jockel was so surprised that at first he did not answer.

“This is the secret chamber where the imperial insignia were hidden in times of trouble in the past,” Agnes went on, and her voice echoed from the walls. She spread out her arms, pointing to all the crowned and bearded men on the walls. “Charlemagne, Ludwig the German, Otto the Great, Barbarossa, the Carolingians, Ottonians, the Salians, the Guelphs, and the Staufers—all were crowned German kings and emperors with the imperial insignia. My mother told me about this room, and my memory of it has come back to me at last.” She gazed into a void as she went on in her dreamlike state. “When Johann of Brunswick and Constanza fled because of the supposed conspiracy against the German king, and it turned out that the Holy Lance had disappeared along with them, the imperial insignia were removed from Trifels Castle. This once magnificent hall stood empty, robbed of its treasures. Later, when the Habsburgs’ henchmen captured Constanza, they thought it particularly and horribly apt to wall up the last descendant of the Staufers here, surrounded by all the rulers whose successor she should really have been. But Constanza withstood them, and she took her secret to her grave.”

“Then there is no clue here to the whereabouts of the lance?” Mathis asked quietly.

Agnes smiled. “I said she took her secret to the grave. This is her grave, and here is the clue.” She pointed to a drawing below the painting of Barbarossa, a drawing that Mathis had not noticed at first. Unlike the other pictures, this one was very simple, more like a child’s drawing. Basically, it consisted of only a few lines, and the colors had long since faded. Long ago, the drawing might have been red, green, and black. All the same, you could still see what it showed. Mathis thought he recognized it as a building with towers and a dome. Scrawled under it were a few words that finally trailed away.

The place where enmity is no more . . .

At that moment several cannonballs crashed into the castle above them, and the ceiling rattled. Small stones and some larger chunks of rock fell to the floor, and in one corner a rent suddenly gaped in the wall. The peasants screamed and ran along the passage back to the dungeon.

“Damn you, wait!” Cursing, Jockel ran after them. As he left the chamber, he turned to his two prisoners. “If you want to see the sun again, come with me,” he said. “Devil take it, I want to know where this Holy Lance is. After that, you can go to hell for all I care.”

 

Only a little later they were together up in the Knights’ House, with the first light of dawn falling through its windows.

The storming of the castle had begun in earnest. The guns crashed and boomed at regular intervals, and the shouts of the besiegers could be heard as they went on the attack. Mathis ventured a glance through one of the window frames, and saw about two dozen landsknechts running toward the walls with ladders. They were supported by a troop of arquebusiers who kept the peasants on the battlements under fire. The insurgents fought off the landsknechts, but it seemed only a question of time before the castle was finally captured. The cannonballs from the huge nightingale and the almost equally powerful culverin punched holes in the already decrepit masonry like giant fists.

Shepherd Jockel stood motionless at one of the windows, staring at the chaos below him. He might have been turned to stone. He had said not a word since their flight from the dungeon. Some of his men, meanwhile, had tied up Agnes and Mathis and dragged them over to the willow throne. Now the peasants glanced uncertainly at their leader.

“Jockel, what are we to do with the hostages now?” asked Moonface. Naked fear—the fear of death—showed clearly on his face. “Hans says the lower castle gate will probably go down soon. And we can’t defend the wall on the eastern side much longer. Maybe you ought to go down yourself and—”

Another blow shook the hall. It was so violent that the peasants threw themselves on the floor, whimpering like little children. In one corner, part of the stone landing of the staircase gave way and fell, crashing down and burying two screaming men under it. A cloud of dust from the shattered stonework spread through the hall.

“You damn cowards!” Jockel bellowed over the noise. He was enveloped in clouds of dust and smoke. “Don’t you see that in our hour of need, God has given us a gift?” Jockel’s eyes flashed as he turned to his few remaining supporters, arms outspread. “I thought God had abandoned us. But no, it was only a trial sent to test us, and now he is sending us his most powerful relic. The Holy Lance.”

He uttered a shrill laugh, and in Jockel’s eyes Mathis saw the insanity that had probably always been in him breaking out at last. His laughter suddenly died away. Shepherd Jockel ran to Agnes, who was still bound, and hauled her up by her hair.

“The lance,” he said. “Give it to me, count’s whore. Tell me, where your ancestors hid it.”

“I don’t know.” Struggling wildly, Agnes tried to break free of Jockel’s grasp. The confidence she had shown in the chamber had disappeared, the proud queen turned back into a frightened young woman. “All I know is that Constanza’s drawing will take us to it,” she added desperately. “The drawing and those words she wrote.”

“You lie, whore, the lance is hidden somewhere here. The drawing shows a castle, and what castle can it be but Trifels? So talk. I need the lance now. Now!” Jockel let go of Agnes and began knocking at the walls of the Knights’ House with his crippled hand. “Aha, there’ll be a secret door somewhere, a walled-up niche. Come on, you layabouts, help me search.”

Those last words were for the half a dozen peasants who were still in the Knights’ House. All the others had run. The last few gawped, open-mouthed, at the dancing dervish who had once been their leader. It was now clear, even to them, that Shepherd Jockel was no longer in his right mind.

“Jockel, stop it,” one of them said falteringly. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, we don’t need it. What we need are your orders. Do we withdraw from the upper bailey, or do we—”

“Aha, there’s a hollow space here,” Shepherd Jockel laughed, hitting the wall so hard that he left traces of blood on it. “I’ve found the Holy Lance. Now the battle can begin at last.” Over and over he struck the wall like a man possessed.

“Holy Virgin Mary, we’re done for,” Moonface muttered, making the sign of the cross. “This is the end.”

At that moment there was a whistling sound, followed by mighty explosion. The whole hall shook, and Mathis was lifted off his feet by the blast.

The nightingale, he thought. A thirty-pound ball has breached the east wall.

Stones, wooden joists, and dust rained down on him. He instinctively crouched down, holding his bound hands over his head to protect it.

“Agnes!” he called into the raging chaos. “Agnes!”

Another beam fell, but before it smashed Mathis to pieces, it suddenly dropped at an angle, catching a fall of stone coming away from the ceiling. Mathis heard a few faint cries, and then, suddenly, there was silence. Somewhere, debris trickled down, but otherwise there was not a sound in the hall.

“Agnes?” Mathis said quietly.

There was no answer. He cautiously sat up and looked at all that was left of what had once been the Knights’ House. Half of the ceiling had fallen in, and so had part of the east wall, letting the cool morning wind blow through. Stones and splintered wood lay all over the floor, with lifeless arms and legs showing from under the ruins. On the west wall, where Jockel had been standing, a huge hole gaped wide, with small remnants of bone and splashes of blood around the edge of it. Mathis flinched when he saw a mushy red substance oozing from under a square stone block.

Nothing else was left of Shepherd Jockel.

“Ma . . . Mathis . . . ?”

He spun around when he heard the faint voice of Agnes somewhere in the room. It took Mathis a little while to find her at last in the rubble. She was huddled on the open hearth, the only place in the Knights’ House that had been spared from the falling masonry.

“My God, you’re alive!”

Laughing and weeping at the same time, Mathis struggled through the wreckage until he finally reached the hearth. Using the sharp edge of a stone, he hastily sawed through the rope tying his wrists, and then, at last, took Agnes in his arms. They were both covered with dust and ashes, looking more like ghosts than human beings.

For a while neither of them said a word. At last Mathis stepped back from Agnes and cut her bonds as well.

“I truly thought—” he began, but Agnes silenced him with a gesture.

“Listen,” she whispered excitedly, clinging to him. “I think I know now where the Holy Lance can be found,” she went on quietly. “When Jockel was talking, it all came clear to me. It’s not here at Trifels, it’s somewhere else entirely.” A hoarse sound escaped her throat. Mathis could not have said whether it was laughter or tears.

“The drawing,” Agnes breathed. “Down in the chamber with the kings and emperors, it seemed so familiar. But it’s only now that I’m sure. The way I fainted in the dungeon, that feeling of being watched by my ancestors—I’d felt all that before in another place.”

Shaking his head, Mathis held her very close again. “Wake up, Agnes. I couldn’t care less where the lance is, understand? You are all I need. For far too long I’ve been—”

He stopped short, hearing the sound of footsteps behind him. Since he had his back to the flight of stairs, it was Agnes who saw the two newcomers first. She uttered a soft cry.

“Oh, my God, Mathis,” she whispered. “Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me I’m dreaming.”

Trembling, she turned to Mathis.

If this was a dream, it was something of a nightmare.