Eifelheim (39 page)

“Our flesh-atoms,” the Kratzer said, “write for us an … appetite … for obedience to our betters. But as one who hungers may fast, so may we temper our hunger for obedience. We have a proverb that reads: ‘Obey an order, until you are strong enough to disobey.’ And another: ‘Authority is limited only by reach.’” He bowed, a human gesture, toward Shepherd, who had gone to a corner of the room by herself.

“And much depend,” Shepherd said, “on man who give order.” Gschert stiffened for a moment, then bounded suddenly from the parsonage, the door banging on its hinges as he departed.

Dietrich said, “I understand,” as he went to close the door.

“Do you?” said Shepherd. “It wonder me. Can man fast all-time, or would hunger in end move him to desperation?”

T
HE NEXT
day, on the feast of St. Kunigund, a riot broke out among the Krenken. They raged against one another on the high street and on the muddy green, to the amazement of villager and garrison alike. Fist and foot and forearm dealt terrible wounds and raised a clatter like swordplay with dry wooden sticks.

Frightened Hochwalders took refuge in church, cottage, or castle, so that work languished. Dietrich cried Truce to the mob on the green, but the combat swirled about him like a stream around a stone.

Pursued by four others, Shepherd bounded past him and up Church Hill. Dietrich hurried after, and found the pursuers pounding upon the carved oaken doors of the church, scarring the figures with their serrated forearms. St. Catherine had sustained a wound never delivered by her Roman tormenters. “Stop, for the love of God!” he cried and interposed himself between the mob and the precious carvings. “This building is sanctuary!”

A terrible blow laid open his headskin and he saw sudden dark and pinprick constellations. The door opened behind him and he fell backward onto the flagstones of the vestibule, striking his already aching head against the stones. Hands seized him and dragged him inside. The door slammed, muffling the clamor of the mob.

How long he lay dazed, he did not know. Then he sat upright, crying, “Shepherd!”

“Safe,” said Joachim. Dietrich looked around the dim-lit church, saw Gregor lighting candles illuminating Shepherd and a number of villagers. The villagers had edged away from the Krenkerin, deeper into the building’s shadows. Joachim helped Dietrich to his feet.

“That was well-said,” the monk told him. “‘Stop for the love of God.’ You did not debate your dialectic.” The pounding on the door had ceased and Joachim went to the peephole and pushed the shutter aside. “They’ve gone,” he said.

“What madness has seized them?” Dietrich wondered.

“They always were an ill-humored lot,” Gregor said as he raised the lamplighter to touch a candle high on the wall. “As arrogant as Jews or nobles. That’s twice they’ve beaten you.”

“Forgive them, Gregor,” said Dietrich. “They did not know what they were doing. I put myself between their fists and their target. Otherwise, they ignore us.” It was the estimative power of instinct, he guessed. From deep within the atoms of their flesh, the Krenken did not esteem humans as friend or foe.

Shepherd squatted upon the flagstones with her knees thrust over her head and her long arms wrapped around them. Her side-lips clicked rhythmically, much as a person might hum to herself. “My lady,” Dietrich said to her, “what means this riot?”

“Need you ask?” the Krenkerin said. “You and Brownrobe cause it.”

Joachim had torn a strip of cloth off the hem of his robe and tied it ‘round Dietrich’s brow to staunch the blood. “We, the cause?” Joachim asked.

“For your native superstition, Hans turn natural order over.”

“My lady,” said Dietrich. “Hans acted for the common good—to recover the wire from Falkenstein. It is the nature of men, of all creation, to pursue the good.”

“Is ‘nature of all creation’
to do as told
—told by authority, or told by nature herself.
That
is what ‘good’ man does. But Hans
decide for himself
what end good, not in course of duties, not by orders from betters. Unnatural! Now, some say he act on orders—from your lord-from-sky, ‘whose authority exceed even Herr Gschert.’”

Joachim cried out. “Blessed be the name of the Lord!” Dietrich hushed him with a brusque gesture. “All authority is ‘under God’,” he told Shepherd, “else authority would have no limits, and justice would be only a Herr’s will. But, say on.”

“Now, discord among us. Words run every way, like highspringers from pouncing swiftjaw, not in orderly channels
from those-who-speak to those-who-listen. As you cannot imagine …
celebration-inside-head
… of knowing one toils in one’s besitting, touching upward, downward, all sides, link in Great Web, neither can you know
lacking-within-us
when Web broken. The Kratzer compare it to hunger, but hunger small thing …” She paused and buzzed softly. “… which one may bear with ease until it grow unbearable. But
this
lacking like sit on bank of flood-swollen river with … with … your word
love-mate
… with love-mates unreachable on farther side.”

“Heartache,” said Joachim unexpectedly. “The word you want is heartache.”

“Doch? Heartache, then.”

Gregor the mason had come to stand with them and, when he heard what Joachim had said, remarked, “They feel heartache, do they? It’s little enough they show it.”

“We have heartache for Web-wholeness,” said Shepherd, “and would swim angry river to restore it. We have heartache for nurseland—you say
Heimat
—and … and its foods.”

“But there are now
heresies
among you,” Dietrich guessed. “Grosswald says one thing; Hans says another. Perhaps
you
,” he suggested, “say a third thing.”

Shepherd raised her masklike face. “Hans go against Gschert words, but fault to Gschert that he not speak those words. Gschertl say I too defy natural order, and mob, high and low, set upon me for that sin. But when two in discord maybe
both
wrong, Gschertl and Hans alike.”

“Those who hold the middle ground,” said Gregor, “are often attacked by both camps. Between two armies is a dangerous place to graze your flock.”

“Discord,” Dietrich said, “is a grave wrong. We must strive always for concord.”

Joachim laughed. “‘I come not to bring concord,’” he quoted, “‘but discord. Because of Me husband will leave wife, children will leave parents.’ So do
philosophers
, playing games with words, lose sight of their plain meanings, which can be found always inscribed in the heart.”

“A bit of discord here, too,” said Gregor mildly.

Dietrich said to Shepherd, “Tell your folk that any who come to the church, or who go to Manfred’s court, may not be attacked, for it is the Peace of God that warriors may not attack women or children, peasants, merchants, artisans, or animals, nor any religious or public building, and by law and custom both, no one may strike another in a church or in a lord’s court.”

“And does this Peace serve?”

“My lady, men are by nature violent. The Peace is a sieve, and much falls through—though perhaps not as much as might otherwise.”

“House-wherein-no-blows-may-fall …” Shepherd said in a voice which might have meant cynicism or wistfulness. “New thought. This building to grow crowded sure.”

D
IETRICH ASKED
Thierry to put down the fighting, but the burgvogt declined. “I have here only the garrison,” he explained. “Five knights, eight sentries, two gatekeepers, and a towermaster. I will not expend them to pacify those … those creatures.”

“Why have you been left here, sir,” Dietrich demanded, “if not to preserve order?”

Thierry bore impertinence less patiently than Manfred. “Von Falkenstein is no man to idle while his enemies attack, and though he cannot strike Freiburg or Vienna, he is perfectly able to ravage the Hochwald. If he sallies, I will need every man hale, alert, and under arms. Should any Krenk flee here for sactuary, he will have it, but I will not police the fighting. That is Grosswald’s besitting, and I will not stand between him and his disobedient vassals.”

Discontent with this ruling, Dietrich borrowed a horse from the stables, and set off toward Falcon Rock, where he hoped to obtain Manfred’s intervention. The urge to press on warred with the need to pick his way carefully down the switchback along the side of the Katerinaberg and through the thickets and other obstacles in the gorge. He was still deep within the shadowed gorge when he heard a dull
thump of thunder and saw a plume of dark smoke rise over the far end of the valley.

H
E ARRIVED
at Falcon Rock after nones, less weary in body than anxious in mind, and sought the Hochward banner in a sprawling camp of no particular order or arrangement. Noble emblems waved on all sides like the flags on a festival tree. Here, the double-eagle of the Hapsburgs; there, the golden sash of the Markgraf and the red and white bars of Urach. Elsewhere, each at its own bastion: the arms of the weavers, the silversmiths, and the other Freiburger guilds. Von Falkenstein had badly misjudged how long the guildsmen would tolerate his impositions. Now, the mechanics and shopkeepers had risen from their benches to pull the pebble from their shoe.

The camp servants were in great celebration and Dietrich saw the reason for it when he reached the head of the camp. The gates to Burg Falkenstein hung loose and the portal had collapsed, as if Sigenot had smashed it with his club. The clash of weapons and the shouts of men drifted faintly from above. The Krenkish thunder-paste had forced an entry into the schloss, but the way was narrow and, notoriously, the “gap of danger” could be held if stoutly defended. Indeed, the rubble mound below the breach had gleamed in the late afternoon sun with the armor and fittings of men and horses.

Dietrich found the Hochwald tents at last, but the Herr’s pavilion was empty, his body servant nowhere in evidence. Manfred’s honor would have propelled him into the gap of danger and he might even now sleep among those gleaming dead. Dietrich re-entered the tent and, finding a divan crafted in the Turkish style, set himself to wait.

A
S EVENING
deepened into night, the battle-sounds faded, signaling that the last of the “die-hards” had been slain or taken captive. Arms and armor fell to the victor, so many knights fought to the death, less for love of their lord than to escape penury and shame. Attackers trickled back
into camp, chivvying prisoners to be ransomed, and carrying the loot with which years of highway robbery had filled Falcon Rock.

Earlier Dietrich had, from boredom, found a book in Manfred’s baggage; but as it concerned falconry, it had done little to relieve that boredom, and he had found himself fretting instead over the copyist’s hand or the qualities of the illuminations. When he heard the irregular tramp of hobnails outside, Dietrich put the volume aside and emerged from the tent.

Attendants had built the fire back up and Max the Schweitzer was settling his men about it. He straightened in surprise. “Pastor! What is wrong? You’ve been wounded!”

Dietrich touched the bandage. “There is fighting in the village. Where is Manfred?”

“At the chirurgeons’ tent. Fighting! Was it that sally from the watchtower? We thought they fled toward Breitnau.”

“No, the Krenken battle among themselves—and Thierry will do nothing.”

Max spat into the fire. “Thierry is skilled at defense. Let Grosswald handle matters.”

“Grosswald is not least among the brawlers. It is for Manfred to decide.”

Max scowled. “He won’t like it. Andreas, take charge of the men. Come, then, pastor. You’ll never find the chirurgeon in this maze.” He set off at a brisk pace and Dietrich had to match his stride to keep up.

“Is he grievous hurt?” Dietrich asked.

“He took a blow that cost him a cheek and several teeth, but I think the chirurgeon can sew it back together. The cheek, I mean.”

Dietrich crossed himself and offered up a silent prayer for the Herr’s well-being. The man had been a strange and cautious friend for many years, peculiar in his humors and given much to contemplation since his lady had died, visceral in his tastes, yet not without depths. He was one of
the few with whom Dietrich could discuss any but the most mundane matters.

But he had misunderstood. It was Eugen, not Manfred, who sat strapped into a chair in the chirurgeon’s tent. A
dentator
was removing the broken teeth one by one with a pelican, a French novelty but recently come into use. The
dentator’s
muscles bulged with the effort and Eugen stifled cries with every pull. The junker’s face was black from the blow it had sustained. Blood spattered his brow, chin, nose, and painted the teeth exposed by the open flap of cheek a hideous scarlet. His skull grinned through the wound. Nearby, a blood-spattered chirurgeon read from a dog-eared book while he waited.

Manfred, who stood by the chair to fortify the lad, noticed Dietrich’s arrival and, by signs, indicated that conversation would wait. Dietrich paced restlessly about the tent, his mission pressing upon him.

Nearby stood a stained table on which the chirurgeon customarily worked and, beside it, a basket of dry sponges. Curious, Dietrich bent to take one up, but the chirurgeon stopped him. “No, no,
padre!
Very dangerous, those.” His patois of French and Italian revealed him for a Savoyard. “They are soaked with an infusion of opium, mandragora bark, and henbane root, and the poison, he may transfer to your fingers. Then …” He mimed licking a finger as if to page his manuscript. “You see? Very bad?”