Eifelheim (45 page)

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was a long time ago, and I was born here. The American story.”

He tapped the pages with his fingernail. “This brother Joachim, on the other hand, sounds like a bigot, denouncing Dietrich to the Inquisition like that and calling the people ‘demons.’”

“Dietrich mightn’t have known who his accusers were.”

“Anonymous denunciation? Sounds like the Inquisition.”

“Well …”

Tom cocked his head. “What?”

“In the beginning, a lot of accusers wound up dead—killed by the heretics—so they were promised anonymity, and severe penalties were imposed for false accusations.”

He blinked. “The Inquisition had
rules?”

“Oh, yes. More stringent than the royal courts, in fact. For example, they prepared a summary of the case where they changed all the names to Latin pseudonyms and presented it to a group of men chosen for their reputation in the community—the
boni viri
, the good men—who could then review it without prejudice. We know of cases where
the accused deliberately committed blasphemy to get transferred out of the royal court to the inquisitorial court.”

“They used torture, though, didn’t they?”

“For questioning, never for punishment. But
everybody
used torture back then. The tribunals allowed it only long after the imperial courts had introduced it. The inquisitors’ own manual called it ‘deceptive and ineffectual,’ and allowed it only as the last resort, or when guilt was already clear from other evidence. Back then, a confession was
required
. They couldn’t convict on other testimony. Torture was allowed only once, and could not cause loss of limb or endanger life, and anything said must be sustained by oath given afterward.”

Tom wouldn’t buy it. “But a persistent prosecutor could find loopholes in that.”

“Or a corrupt one. Certainly. It was more like a modern grand jury than a trial.”

“Are you sure? I always thought …”

“It was my dissertation in narrative history.”

“Oh. That’s why you learned Latin, then?” In truth, Tom was often surprised by the granular details of history. Working as he did with the big picture, the particulars could vanish into faceless stereotypes.

He studied the printout again. How much more information was hidden the same way, deep in a Black Forest of words seven centuries thick? “I’d guess they were Chinese. Dietrich’s guests, I mean. The comments about skin color and eye shape. Oriental, at any rate.”

“There was such travel in the fourteenth century,” Judy admitted. “Marco Polo and his father and uncle. And William Rubrick, who was a friend of Roger Bacon.”

“What about travelers in the other direction? Did anyone from China head west?”

Judy wasn’t sure, but the Pigeon Hole was a Hot Spot, so she pulled out her wireless and poked an inquiry. After a few minutes she nodded. “We know about two Chinese Nestorians who came west. Hunh! At the same time the
Polos were going east. They may have passed each other on the way. Hey, one of them was named Marco, too. That’s weird. Marco and Sauma. When they reached Iraq, Marco was elected
Catholicos
, the Nestorian Pope, and he sent Sauma on embassies to the Roman Pope and the English and French Kings.

“So Dietrich may have sheltered a similar party,” Tom said, tugging his lower lip, “one that met with disaster. Attacked by robber barons, maybe. Some were wounded, he says.”

“Perhaps,” Judy agreed, “but …”

“But what?”

“Chinese aren’t
that
different. And they can’t
fly
. So why call them flying demons?”

“If their arrival coincided with an outbreak of ergot hallucinations, the two events may have been connected in the popular mind.”

Judy pursed her lips. “If so, Dietrich seems to have converted at least one hallucination to Catholicism. Johann. Do you suppose it’s the same person as Johannes Von Sterne, the one whose baptism was referred to the bishop’s court?”

“I think so. And this was Dietrich’s response. Remember, the
moriuntur
document?”

“Yes. I think it must have been part of a journal kept by Pastor Dietrich.”

“Bestimmt
. In a small village like Oberhochwald, the priest was probably the only literate man. Here. These came from Anton this morning in an e-mail.” Tom handed her printouts of some pdf files I had sent him. “He dug around over in Freiburg for me.”

Judy read through them avidly. Sure, she was only a research assistant, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t care—about the research, among other things. When she finished, she set them down on the table and frowned a little. Then she paged back and re-read some passages.

“Did you catch that part about their names?” Tom asked. “‘He
is called Johann because his true name is too difficult
for our tongue.’
He would never have heard a non-Indo-European language before.”

Judy nodded absently. “He must have studied Hebrew if he was the
doctor seclusus
that Ockham mentions. And he would likely have heard Arabic at some time. But—”

“Did you read the part where Johann and some of his companions helped care for the villagers during the Plague?” Tom retrieved the pages from Judy, who continued to look at the space they had occupied between her hands. Tom licked his thumb and flipped through the sheets. “Here it is.
‘Hans and three of his countrymen daily visit the sick and bury the dead. How sad that those who hid from their sight will not emerge to witness true Christian charity
.’” He took a sip of his soda.
“‘And so Johann and I prayed for strength together, and gave comfort to those pilgrims who have grown despondent.’”

Judy made up her mind about something. It was only an intuition and she was afraid to give it voice, because she didn’t really know what that voice would say. She took the pages from him, leafed through them, and pointed with her finger. “What do you make of this …?” The abruptness in her voice earned her a curious look before Tom read the indicated passage.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said when he had finished. “Dietrich found Hans alone one night looking at the stars. They talked a while and Hans asked how he would ever find his way home again. A homesick traveler,
n’estce pas?”

“No, Tom. He wrote that Hans
pointed to the stars
and asked how he would find his way home again.”

“So? People in those days used the stars as guides in traveling.”

She looked away; pushed her cheesesteak aside. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a feeling. Something we’ve read. It means something different … Not what we think it means.”

He didn’t answer her. He took a last bite from his hoagie and put it down unfinished. Despite the cornucopia
of material they had unearthed, they were still no closer to finding the reason for Oberhochwald’s abandonment. He chewed on that for a while instead.

Shun them as we shun the unholy soil of Teufelheim
. In its last year of existence, Oberhochwald was an ordinary village. Yet, a mere generation later it was being called the Devil’s Home.

He didn’t realize it, but he was dabbling in the occult—the essence of the matter was still hidden—and he would need a bit of magic to uncover it.

XVII
APRIL/MAY
, 1349
Until Rogation Sunday

B
Y SPRING
, it seemed as if the Krenken had always been there. They had settled into the rivalries, rhythms, friendships, and jealousies that marked village and manor, and had begun to participate in ceremonies and revelries. Perhaps, being deprived of the company of their own folk, their
instinctus
drove them to seek such comfort. When Franzl Long-nose was wounded by outlaw knights encamped in a cave below the Feldberg, two Krenken used their flying harnesses to scout for the outlaws, though to no avail.

“Men of von Falkenstein’s,” Max told Dietrich later, “who took to the woods when the Rock fell. I had thought them fled toward Breitnau.”

Shepherd’s long awaited coup fell on Low Sunday. Many Krenken, through too-literal a translation, had expected the “Herr-from-the-sky” to arrive on Easter and rescue them, and were afterward much disheartened. Shepherd (who had not so misconstrued) had carefully positioned her people, awaiting just this disappointment. She
had insinuated herself into Herr Manfred’s company, always between Gschert’s lips and Manfred’s ear. She intended that Manfred should grow accustomed to hearing her advice in addition to—and eventually, instead of—Gschert’s. Manfred, no stranger to intrigues among his vassals, was keenly aware of her maneuvers. “She thinks to depose him,” he told Dietrich one evening as he and Dietrich and Max strolled the castle walls. “As if my oath to protect him would mean nothing.”

Dietrich said, “She told me that the Krenken play a game of position and maneuver among themselves. I think she is bored, and this is a way of relieving her tedium. A curious folk.”

“A
patient
folk,” Max answered. “God might’ve created them for ambush work or sentry-go; but for intrigue, the dullest Italian could rob them blind.”

Shepherd seemed affronted when Manfred rejected her assumption of power and instead set guards over Baron Grosswald. Dietrich was unsure how great an obstacle they would have proven had Shepherd pressed her coup to the limit, but the Krenken seemed disinclined to anger their host. Most of the pilgrims and one of the Kratzer’s philosophers declared their fealty to Shepherd, who settled in the end for secession.

Gschert accustomed himself to the role of “Herr of the Krenken,” and he “beat the kettledrum,” as folk said, even though the secession, first of Hans and his companions and then of Shepherd and her pilgrims, greatly reduced his besitting. Most of the ship’s crew remained loyal to him, and perhaps he had convinced himself that this was indeed the rightful and customary bound to his authority. He was seen betimes standing rock-hard on the castle parapet, gazing out across the world with those great yellow eyes and thinking no one knew what. Dietrich never did pierce the consciousness of that cruel and haughty lord.

M
AY BLOSSOMED
from April’s bounty, and wildflowers speckled the meadows and high woods. The rich odor of
rising sap and the fragrance of honey-clover anointed the air. Diligent bees flitted among the blossoms, griping bears newly roused. But in the age-old honey-struggle between bear and bee, it was men who held the balance, for they hunted the one and farmed the other.

On Walpurgisnacht, bonfires lit the hilltops to frighten witches from their covens. As custom required, Manfred spent the day playing with the villagers’ illegitimate children; while those selfsame peasants danced around festooned poles and leapt through fires and ensured a plentiful supply of such children for future years.

Dietrich and Hans sat on the church green, overlooking the celebration. “It is said that the ancient red-haired race who once held these lands lit such fires to mark the middle of the springtime.”

“The folk you call pagans,” Hans said.

“One sort of pagan. The Romans had outgrown such frivolities, one reason why their empire fell. It was much too serious to last.”

“Then the Christians took these customs from the pagans.”

Dietrich shook his head. “No, the pagans
became
the Christians and merely kept their own ways when they did. So, like the Romans, we give gifts during Christmastide and, like the Germans, we decorate trees on festive occasions.”

“And like the red-haired race, you light bonfires and dance around poles.” Hans parted his lips. “Underseeking your customs was the Kratzer’s great work, and I have the sentence in my head that this example will please him. Perhaps …” He stiffened for just a moment. “Perhaps I will visit him.”

Below, among the celebrants, the philosopher plied his
fotografik
device.

O
N ROGATION
Sunday, Hans and the other enfoeffed Krenken joined the villagers in the annual progress of the
manor. Dietrich led them forth after Mass, garbed in a flowing embroidered green cape and bearing holy water in a brass bucket on which was engraved the image of a spring bursting from a rock. Behind him, in order of precedence, marched Klaus and Hilde, then Volkmar and his kin, and the other
ministeriales
for that year, and behind them the mass of villagers, two hundred strong, chatting and laughing, with children darting among them as random and as humming as the bees in the meadows. Hans and Gottfried walked beside Dietrich, the latter bearing the aspergum and the former, the pail.