Eifelheim (25 page)

“In olden times,” Dietrich told Gregor as they ate their evening meal, “all caravans were like this. The merchants were armed with bows and swords and were sworn to each other by oaths.”

“Were they?” asked Gregor. “Like an order of knights?”

“Very like. It was called a
hans
or, in the French, a
company
, because they ‘shared bread.’ The
schildrake
carried the banner at the head of the band—as Eugen does—and the
hansgraf
exercised authority over his brother-merchants.”

“Like Everard.”

“Doch
. Save that caravans in those days were much larger and traveled from fair to fair.”

“Those fairs must have been something to see. Sometimes I wish I lived in olden times. Were robber knights more common than now?”

“No, but there were Vikings from the north; Magyars from the east; and Saracens from their stronghold in the Alps.”

“Saracens in the Alps?”

“At Garde-Frainet. They preyed upon merchants and pilgrims crossing between Italy and France.”

“And now we must go to the Holy Land to fight them!”

Thierry overheard and grunted without humor. “If the Sultan feels like attacking me, I know how to defend myself; but if he leaves me alone, I’ll not bother him. Besides, if God is everywhere, why go to Jerusalem to find him?”

Dietrich agreed. “That’s why we now elevate the Host after the Consecration. So folk will know that God is ever-where.”

“Of that, I would not know,” Thierry continued, “but if Jerusalem was so holy, why did so many return grown wicked?” He tossed his head toward the mouth of the gorge. “You’ve heard the story about him?”

Dietrich nodded. “The devil freed his ancestor from the Saracens at the price of his soul.”

Thierry wiped the juices from his plate with a crust of bread. “There is more to the tale.” He put the plate aside and his junker took it for cleaning. The others at the fire clamored for the tale, so the knight wiped hands on knees, looked around the circling faces, and told them.

“The first Falkenstein was Ernst von Schwaben, a goodly knight endowed with all manly virtues—save that Heaven had denied him a son to carry his name to posterity. He took to cursing Heaven over it, which sorely afflicted his pious wife.

“A voice in his dreams told him that to make peace with Heaven, he must make pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The proud Graf was horrified at this terrible penance; but at last he smothered his own desires and departed with Barbarossa on the second great kingly pilgrimage. Before setting forth, he broke his wedding ring and, keeping half, told his wife that if he had not returned in seven years, she should consider their ties no longer binding.

“Na. The German army came to grief and Redbeard drowned; but Ernst pressed on to the Holy Land, where his sword became renowned among the infidels. In one battle, he was captured by the Sultan. With each new moon, his
captor offered him release if only he would embrace the religion of Mahomet. Naturally, he refused.

“So passed the years until one day, the Sultan, impressed with his chivalry and fortitude, released him. He wandered through the desert, always toward the setting sun; until, one night as he slept, the Devil came to him.”

“Hah!” said Gregor in the firelight, “I knew the fiend was in it somewhere.” The serfs who had driven the estate wagons crossed themselves at the dreadful name.

“The Wicked One reminded him that the seventh year would expire on the morrow and his wife would wed his cousin. But he promised to bring him home before the morning, and that he would not lose his soul—
provided
he slept throughout the journey. So it was that he made his wicked compact.

“The Evil One changed himself into a lion which, when the knight mounted, flew off high over land and sea. Terrified, he closed his eyes and slept—until a falcon’s screech roused him. He looked down horrified, where far below stood his castle. A marriage procession was entering. With a wild roar, the Evil Spirit dashed him down and fled.

“During the banquet, the
Gräfin
Ida noticed this stranger who never turned his sorrowful eyes from her face. When he had emptied his goblet, he handed it to a servant, to present to his mistress. When she glanced inside the cup, she saw … half of a ring.”

Everyone gusted a satisfied sigh. Thierry continued.

“Thrusting her hand into her bosom, she pulled forth the other half of the ring and threw it joyfully into the goblet. Thus were the two halves united, and the wife enfolded in her husband’s arms. A year later she bore him a child. And that is why the family puts a falcon on their arms.”

Everard said, “One almost understands how a man might strike such a bargain.”

“Always the Evil One holds out a lesser good,” said Dietrich, “hoping to turn our hearts from the greater. But a man cannot lose his soul by a trick.”

“Besides,” said Thierry, looking with satisfaction over
his audience, “Ernst could have been a saint, and Philip would still be a robber.”

“That was a romantic age,” Gregor suggested. “Those tales I used to hear of Redbeard and that English king …”

“Lionheart,” said Dietrich.

“They knew how to name their kings back then! And Good King Louis. And the noble Saracen who was friend and foe of the Lionheart, what was his name?”

“Saladin.”

“A most chivalrous knight,” Thierry commented, “for all that he was an infidel.”

“And where are they now?” said Dietrich. “Only names in songs.”

Thierry drank from his goblet and handed it to his junker to fill again. “A song is enough.”

Gregor turned his head up. “But it really ought to be …”

“What?”

The mason shrugged. “I don’t know. Glorious. To save Jerusalem.”

“Ja. It is.” Dietrich was silent a moment, so that Gregor looked over at him. “The first who took the cross did so from piety. The Turks had destroyed the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and barred our pilgrims from the shrines. They were not so tolerant as the Arabs, who held the Holy City before them. But I think many went also for land, and the vision grew soon tarnished. The legates could not find enough volunteers, so that Outremer lacked reinforcement. The Regensburgers assaulted those who took up the cross; and the cathedral chapter at Passau preached a ‘holy war’ against the papal legate, who had come recruiting.”

Gregor threw his head back and laughed. “Stag’s Leap.”

“What?”

“Why, the knights, after chasing the Saracens out of the Alps, forgot to stop and tried to leap all the way to Outremer!”

T
HE HOCHWALDERS
entered Freiburg by the Swabian Gate, where they paid the Graf’s toll-keeper an
obole
for
each hide and four pfennigs for each barrel of wine. Walpurga’s honey was taxed at four pfennigs the
sauma
. “Everything is taxed,” Gregor grumbled as they passed through the portal, “except the good pastor.”

The party entered a small square called Oberlinden, and so to the tavern called the Red Bear, where Everard arranged for lodgings, “although you, pastor, will probably stay with the chapter at the Dear Lady Church.”

“Always tight with the pfennig,” cried Gregor, who had pulled a casket of clothing from the wagon and set it beside the door to the inn.

“Thierry and Max have taken their men to the Schlossberg,” the steward said, indicating the stronghold perched on the hill east of the town. “Bad enough to share a bed with the likes of this gof,” wagging a thumb at the mason, “but the fewer bodies we cram into our room, the more comfortable we’ll all be. Gregor, walk the priest to the minster and pay the guild for a stall in the market. Find where our wagons are to go.” He tossed Gregor a small leather pouch and the mason caught it jingling in midair.

Gregor laughed and, taking Dietrich by the elbow, steered him from the inn’s courtyard. “I remember when Everard was just a simple peasant like the rest of us,” Gregor said. “Now he beats the kettledrum.” He looked around and spotted the bell tower rising over the roofs of the modest buildings on the north side of Oberlinden. “This way.”

They breasted a flood of tradesmen, soldiers, guild masters in rich coats of marten; apprentices rushing about their masters’ business; miners from Ore Chest Mountain that gave the town its lead and silver wealth; country knights gawping at the buildings and the bustle; Breisgau spinsters toting baskets of thread for delivery to the weavers; a man wearing the dank smell of the river and balancing a long pole on his shoulder from which dangled a multitude of dripping fish; a “gray monk” crossing the square toward the Augustiner.

The town had been founded in the great silver rush, a
hundred and fifty years before. An oath-band of merchants had taken lots fifty shoes by a hundred at an annual rent of a pfennig each, for which each settler received hereditary tenancy, use of the commons and the market, exemption from tolls, and the right to elect the maier and the schultheiss. The liberties had drawn serf and free from the countryside.

From Salt Street, they passed through a narrow alley to Shoemaker Street, pungent with leather and uncured hides. Small rivulets flowed through channels alongside the streets, a restful and cleansing sound.

“Such a great city!” Gregor cried. “Each time I come down here it seems grown bigger.”

“Not so great as Köln,” said Dietrich, searching the passing faces for the first widening eyes of recognition, “nor Strassburg.”

Gregor shrugged. “Big enough for me. Did you know Auberede and Rosamund? No, that was before you came. They were serfs who held a manse in common near Unterbach, which they farmed to a gärtner—I have forgotten his name. He ran off to the ‘wild east,’ became a ‘cow-knight’ on one of those big cattle drives. I suppose he lives now in a ‘new town’ under Flemish Rights and battles the ferocious Slavs. What was I saying?”

“Auberede and Rosamund?”

“Ach, ja. Well, those two were hard workers, and cunning. At least Auberede was cunning. My father always counted his fingers after he shook her hand. Hah! While the gärtner farmed their land, they dressed some vines belonging to Heyso—that was Manfred’s brother, who held the Hochwald then. They talked him into granting them custody of a storeroom near Oberbach, as well as some of the vines for a half-share in the increase. After a few years, they’d done well enough that he granted them the whole thing as a life income—manse, vineyard, storeroom, plus a wagon and some Flemish horses! Finally, weary of working for half-shares, they convinced Heyso to convert
the grant to a lease. They purchased a house in Freiburg with the increase; and one day they moved here with no more farewell than that.”

“Did they ever buy their freedom?”

The mason shrugged. “Heyso never went after them and after a year and a day, they were free. He farmed their strips to Volkmar, as was his right—it was salland, after all; but the women still send a man of theirs to tend the vineyard under the lease, so I think everyone is content with the arrangement.”

“One serf less,” said Dietrich, “is one more manse escheated to the lord. Coin is valued more than handservice. The folk on a manor were once called a
familia
. Now, all is money and profit.”

Gregor grunted. “Not enough of it, if you ask me. Here’s the minster-place.” The square was raucous with the clatter of hammers, creak of pulleys, snap of canvas, and the curses of workmen as they erected the booths for the market. Above them soared from the bustling square a magnificent church of red sandstone. Construction had begun soon after the town was chartered, and the nave was built in the style of that day. The choir and transept had been added later in the modern style, but with such skill as to present no clash in overall appearance. The outer walls were adorned with statues of saints beneath protective stone canopies. Under the eaves, modern gargoyles gaped and leered and, during the rains, vomited the water running off the roof. The bell tower ascended three hundred shoes above their heads. Tall windows filled with stained-glass lights pierced the walls—so many that the roof seemed to float unsupported!

“I’d think the whole thing would collapse of its own weight,” Dietrich said. “The Beauvais choir vault was only a hundred and fifty-six shoes high, and it collapsed and killed the workers.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, sixty years ago, I think. I heard it spoken of in Paris.”

“Those were more primitive times—and the masons were French. They need all those lights because old-fashioned clerestory is too weak to illuminate the interior. But then, as you said, there is not wall enough left to hold up the roof. So they use those ‘striving-pillars’ to brace the wall and disperse the weight of the roof.” Gregor pointed to the row of outer pilasters.

“You’re the mason,” Dietrich said. “I heard that the Parisians finished their great Church of Our Lady three years ago. I don’t think this one is done yet. The tower wants a spire. Is that the emporium across the square? I think you must go there to have a stall assigned. Which way is the Franciscan church?”

“Straight through Minster Place to the other side of the main street. Why?”

“I have a cross Lorenz made for them, and I thought I’d take them some word of Joachim.”

Gregor grinned. “Why not take them Joachim?”

T
HE MONKS
at St. Martin’s Church were assembling a large crèche in the sanctuary. Francis of Assisi had begun the custom of building a Christmas crèche, and its popularity had lately spread to the Germanies.

“We start placing figures after Martinmas,” the prior explained. The Feast of St. Martin marked the popular beginning of the Christmas season, though not the liturgical one. “First, the animals. Then, on Christmas Vigil-night, the Holy Family; on Christmas day, the Shepherds; and finally on Epiphany, the Wise Men.”

“Certain church fathers,” Dietrich said, “ascribed the Nativity to March, which would be more reasonable than December if shepherds were watching their flocks by night.”

The monks paused in their labors and looked at each other. They laughed. “It’s
what
happened that matters, not
when
it happened,” the prior told him.