Holzmenge

By Walter Max Poitzsch

The book is a work of fiction. It loosely uses German legends like a dwarf that drinks a barrel of wine, a giant pike, the Pied Piper and the werewolves and witches of fairy stories. It also follows the ebb and flow of a centuries-long conflict between the Islamic and Christian worlds as well as the rise of the Lutheran/Roman Catholic conflict. The inspiration for the book was a childhood exposure to the castles and cathedrals of Germany (especially along the Rhine River.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503535107

Walter Max Poitzsch

Walter spent most of his adult life living and working overseas (mostly in Africa) or teaching (from the secondary graduate school level). As a child his family traveled to Germany now and then to visit relatives. There he saw many restored castles and churches and heard many legends (and historical facts) about the history of Germany.

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Copyright © 2015 by Walter Max Poitzsch.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015900723

ISBN:      Hardcover            978-1-5035-3508-4

                Softcover              978-1-5035-3509-1

                eBook                   978-1-5035-3510-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 02/09/2015

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Contents

Prologue

Book One

The Mannheim Pike

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book Two

The Wurzelsepp

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Book Three

The Muse Of Borgenschlag

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Book Four

The Holzmenge Coven

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Conclusion

Ochsenschwann (May, 1995)

A Primary Source

Holzmenge

Excerpts from the doctoral research of Dr. J.W. Carp, Faculty of Fine Arts, Midwestern University (Reprinted with permission of Marabou, Hornet & Lizard Pub. Co. Ltd., Minneapolis)

Prologue

This is half a tale of wine and roses. Roses were not yet in vogue. York and Lancaster still worried together over the Magna Carta; Edward and Philip glowered at one another across the channel, while Boniface in the Vatican harried Adolf on the seat of the Holy Roman Empire. Wine, on the other hand, is crucial when recalling these great men and their retainers: this was Europe’s Midsummer’s Eve—the High Middle Ages—a circumstance about which the privileged few lost no opportunity to toast themselves.

The masses comprising the less-than-privileged staggered under taxation, ignorance, leprosy, heat, cold, flood, vermin and the lash-and-stave of religious and secular authority. They dwelt in impoverished hamlets from which they seldom strayed for fear of wolves, aurochs, robbers and the dreaded wurzelsepp–the ancient pagan race that lives under forgotten rocks and the contorted roots of trees. Trees! Everywhere trees…the highways were rivers. The Romans had surveyed the best roads a thousand years earlier. Most avenues were footpaths, as wide as an arm span and not to be trusted unless in the best light.

In the Iberian Peninsula and the Ionian Peninsula the wail of the muezzin rose and fell in the echoes of cathedral bells; along the breadth of the Italian Peninsula the Medici provoked ever more fanciful allegory among the chroniclers and poets. The days of myth—the generations of kobolds, banshees and fairies—were suddenly less colorful and titillating than the Canterbury pilgrimage’s reeves and millers. Nevertheless, some of the old artisans’ magic returned after a long exile from Rome—manifested in the endearing and captivating faces of carved stone cherubim (no more than the less endearing but infinitely more captivating gargoyles.)

As the first light of dawn and the waning light of dusk animated their blank stone eyes it is said that both species took wing—like hornets—and resumed their competition for the sympathies of mortal men and women…

BOOK ONE

THE MANNHEIM PIKE

Chapter 1

(ca. 1300 A.D.)

The archers of Heilbronn and Friedrickshafen protected the barges transporting pilgrims and merchants down the Neckar River. Friedrickshafen and Heilbronn boasted a notoriety that provoked challenges to the most enduring rumors: "What—Tell? You mean Herr Wilhelm Tell, that Swiss bloke? Shot the apple off his boy’s head, did he? With a crossbow, you say? Well, they say up in Friedrickshafen there’s a young fellow named Peter who shot a grape off the head of a girl…"

Aachem and Peter Friedrickshafen were lanky and stern. They wore brown trousers under sky-blue jerkins, earth-colored capes and caps decorated with hawk feathers dipped in boars’ blood. They slung broadswords across their backs and their high boots tracked alpine mud into the modest familial hall where they displayed the skulls of stag, chamois and aurochs. They knew horsemanship, but preferred the gentle rock of a riverboat. They were sober, pious and industrious—to be trusted with bride, daughter or maid.

Wolfgang and Arnold Heilbronn were sons of the forest, the garden and the meadow. Their tunics were forest green and their leggings autumn gold, and rather than broadswords they carried a dagger on the left and an axe over the shoulder. Arnold was of the same mold as the Friedrickshafener, but Wolfgang Heilbronn was a drinker and carouser of the first order—except when under contract. Then he and his brother were whippets on the river or trail, badgers when cornered and foxes when pursued. Wolfgang told wild stories of Wurzelsepp—of gypsies, satyrs and dyads— and he claimed to have observed druids sacrifice blood at their altar.

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At the time of our story the part of Wüttemberg west of Stuttgart and south of the Enz River was a great uncharted forest called Holzmenge. Mighty beech and oak trees towered above a dappled musty floor of ferns, mushrooms and wild flowers. In winter the forest was perpetually light with shadows of blue and silver; in summer the forest was perpetually dark with shadows of green and gold. In eager spring it was a Mediterranean world of brilliant oils; in languid autumn it was a Scandinavian world of gentle pastels. The west wind sang of noble heritage; the east wind sang of wondrous change. The north wind blew cold from the Friesian Islands; the south wind blew cold from the Toggenburg Alps. Today Holzmenge is said to appear once in a generation; others say once in a century, like Germelshausen. In those days it was a persistent darkness on the Imperial cartographers’ proudest documents—a deep and ominous green stain decorated by sinister caricatures of Cyclopes and unicorns.

A few hardy and ambitious peasants settled in this ancient and formidable wood. One of them was a rich Bürgher named Bokbinder who made his fortune trapping otter, ermine and fox. Bokbinder lived in a half-timber house with flowers in the window boxes. He served a knight named the Waldmeister von Holzmenge who although a hermit was a renowned musician and poet, presiding over a court of gypsies. Von Holzmenge produced a wine of particular delicacy from pears. The location of the Waldmeister’s orchard was a mystery that no one—including Bokbinder—had the courage to resolve. The rumors that his gypsy retainers repeated of Waldmeister suggested connections to the bad sprites that occasionally stole lambs (and children) from incautious villagers and settlers. Once a year immense carved casks floated down the Enz to the landing where Bokbinder’s waterwheel powered his mill. Bokbinder retrieved the barrels with pikes and cables and then kept them under lock and key until the arrival of the barges crewed by Wüttemberg merchants, guarded by the archers of Heilbronn and Friedrickshafen. The wonderful wine brought Bokbinder a tidy profit—almost as much as his bales of fur. Bokbinder had five children. The oldest was a beauty of marriageable age; the youngest nymph still protested the origin of the gingerbread and fruit she found filling her wooden-soled shoes on the Eve of St. Nicholas.

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The Count of Stuttgart was related by marriage to a gentleman named Dortmund. The heir of Dortmund was instructed by the Archbishop of Köln to marry a certain Graafin von Györ—a Magyar princess—for the sake of Imperial solidarity. This was fiercely distressing to Dortmund. He was a headstrong boy of fifteen and fancied his childhood sweetheart from Copenhagen. However, the Archbishop was adamant and the advisors and regents of Dortmund were implacable, and so the heartbroken son of Dortmund was lead off on a boar hunt while the weeping maiden of Copenhagen was chastened by the convent sisters to whom her exasperated parents temporarily consigned her.

After a journey of many harrowing months the princess of Györ was brought to Ulm. The poor girl had only just celebrated her fourteenth birthday, and now she was engaged to marry someone in all probability (if his southern countrymen were any indication) disagreeable and uncouth. Quickly stymied and exasperated by her tearful wilt, Graaf von Ulm designed to send this rose down the vine where it might blossom for its little hummingbird. (This was the colorful way in which the Graaf and Graafin von Ulm liked to describe their own nuptial gymnastics: the allusion reduced a snickering yeoman to such distraction that he was lead off by the elbow by his neighbor, who wore the same rustic costume.)

Who is that boorish scoundrel? the Count of Ulm scowled.

A champion archer by the name Heilbronn.

Heilbronn; yes, I know the fellow. A right devil he is, too, or I’m mistaken. Left an abbotess in a state of disgrace, di’n’t he? I’n’t he the fellow?

The same, please it you.

He pleases me not at all! Leaves a pitted cherry in every Dörfchen, I expect. Well, fetch the hooligan back. We’ll let him tend the rose’s pretty garden ’till it’s time to turn her soil, eh?—And so the brothers Heilbronn were summoned anew. Look here; I need someone to herd this filly to her saddler, if you take my meaning. (When she was informed of it the poor Princess of Györ wept over the metaphor.) Wolfgang Heilbronn choked on his ale. Arnold swallowed hard and studied the rose window and Gothic columns of the state house. And she’s to be delivered uncooked nor seasoned, d’ye understand? Where she’s headed they like their shad and cabbage, you know; they’ve no need for your mustard! Shad and cabbage, lads: that’s her. Of course, churls like you will have experienced neither shad nor cabbage…

Wolfgang left Arnold to make arrangements while he wandered through the castle of Ulm, amused by its ward. All at once he heard voices. Beyond a stone buttress the castle garden sprawled; on one column St. George skewered the dragon. Opposite the Saint Lucifer peered distantly back at the archer. In a flash of fancy Wolfgang Heilbronn was sure that the stone devil winked at him. He whimsically touched his cap to the bas-relief and then crept through beneath the arch, to stand transfixed at his first view of the Princess of Györ—the ’shad and cabbage.’

She rested her head on the lap of her handmaiden. Her profile was darkly framed from behind by gentle April sunshine; the lady-in-waiting combed her mistress’ long rich black curls while the latter softly implored the former in the language of the Steppe. Then the princess sobbed because in Hungary the springtime heath would bloom purple, while newborn foals toddled after their graceful half-wild mothers. Always susceptible to such scenes of tenderness, Wolfgang Heilbronn fled ere he was overcome by hopeless fancies. He collided with a barrel-chested knounter in a strange tunic. The gentleman had an immense moustache that curved into an expression of suspicious animosity, like a belligerent walrus. This worthy was responsible for the princess on the Danube portion of her excursion. He also had in his possession a small chest that held precious heirlooms—a gift from his intended father-in-law to the future husband of the Princess of Györ. It was the dowry of a royal child whom the Hungarian knight had known (and protected) from her infancy.

Wolfgang and Arnold Heilbronn were charged with her safety so long as she traveled by river. From Ulm she departed by coach to Geislingen and from thence to Esslingen, escorted by the cavalry of Graaf von Ulm. Finally she came to the place where the barges awaited her, the bodyguard and the lady-in-waiting. The bodyguard’s name was Matthias. He was a glum son of the steppe and it was obvious he was unhappy with the lot designed for him by the blind sisters at their loom. Early in their journey wolves set upon the entourage of the Princess of Györ, and then bandits; Matthias was hopelessly in love with his mistress’ maid, who held him in contempt as an ignorant ape. He was given to periodic outbursts of poignant sighing, staring to the east with such melancholy that at length the two archers of Heilbronn lost interest in making him the object of their diversion. The lady-in-waiting promised a more interesting game.

She was a robust, healthy beauty titled Ursula Bratislava. Rather than displaying regret over forsaking Hungary, Ursula Bratislava glanced now and then at the rising sun with a dismissive snort. She recalled nothing so much as a gay young mare released for the first time from some constricting harness on her limbs and haunches. She beckoned both Heilbronn brothers with pouting flirtation: the gentle sex exacting revenge upon Paris. Arnold Heilbronn perceived Matthias’s jealousy; he alerted his brother, who regretfully agreed to forgo pursuit of the bewitching dark-eyed Hungarian maid.

Aachem and Peter Friedrickshafen arrived with more passengers: a musical trio bound for a singing competition to be held in Oberhausen in August. The first was a dwarf from Heidelberg named Paraclesius. Paraclesius was a drinker out of all proportion to his modest stature, his voice a thunderous baritone.

The high tenor was a dandy peacock, tall and athletic, named Till Eulen. He wore long, pointed shoes whose toes projected forward until they curved back, secured to his ankles by a string. His pants were checkered black-and-white, like a chessboard. Young Eulen had a yellow-and-red tunic, woven with gold braid; his waist was shapely as a dancing girl’s, fastened by a belt so tight that the garment flared out, exposing the muscular buttocks of a wrestler. His shoulders were broad and his arms strong. He had a stag’s neck and a clean-shaven jaw. His eyes were deep and solemn; he wore a bright yellow cape and a forester’s cap with an immense feather blossoming from the right side. From his girdle dangled a pipe and a flute.

The third musician—the counter-tenor—had a broad chest, bandy legs and a fox stole. He had the elegant title Ritter Schnabel. Landsmann Schnabel wore a broadsword, with a tarnished hilt, and a wooden helmet plumed by the antlers of a yearling buck, which projected out at right angles. The helmet had a band of stained brass that suspended tinkling rings of mail below the level of Schnabel’s sloping shoulders. Schnabel had an oak shield— a sturdy brother of his helmet. In the center of the planks Paraclesius had painted their crest—a pear, an apple, and a bunch of grapes—in shades of green that clashed alarmingly with the cape and jerkin his liege wore about his remarkable body. This suit was patched and mended by threads of blue over a fabric of dull olive. Schnabel kept his helm and shield among the luggage; he preferred a forester’s hat such as they wear in the Tyrol. His boots were unpolished calf with wooden soles worn to the thickness of a corpse’s skin.

Schnabel had a lute; Eulen had his flute; the dwarf had only his articulate hands and an expression on his pudgy face that recalled the sated contentment of a cow as she relieves herself. The baritone and Ritter Schnabel had performed together for some time; Paraclesius called himself Schnabel’s squire, an arrangement that the latter good-naturedly did not dispute. Till Eulen was their apprentice. As a youth he had been infamous for all sorts of ridiculous pranks; he had been trained by gypsies in sleight-of-hand and hypnotism and even modest conjuring and potions. Now that he was a man, and manlier behavior was expected of him, he wished to whitewash his notoriety by associating with established members of a respectable guild. (In the old days he had been known as ‘Eulenspiegel,’ a title he was anxious to escape.)

Besides the secure delivery of this human cargo, the archers underwrote a contract to receive ten tuns of Waldmeister’s wine from the peasant, Bokbinder. The barges that hired them had a crew of four Alsatian brothers—young fellows, veterans of the latest crusade. The latter experience had put ruddiness in their skins and distance in their eyes—the presence of some djin from the Palestinian sands—their possession by a thoughtful and melancholy spirit. They girdled short, heavy swords, and they wore brass helmets shaped like the shells of eggs, with a guard that covered the bridge of the nose. The eldest of the four was a clever and ambitious fellow named Reynard. The next eldest brother—Chercheur—had extensive knowledgeable of current and wind. Of the two younger brothers, one was the husky pugilist Lunéville. The youngest—Cheval—was a bull with a quick laugh and a quicker temper. The brothers had purchased the two rafts with the gold they brought back from the Holy Land. From the proceeds of their expedition they would retire to the rich countryside of their childhood memories, there to raise sheep, wed pretty peasant girls and father apple-cheeked children in vineyards of rich grape. It was a charming mythology, one that the brothers elaborated and refined endlessly.

The two alpine scouts—Peter and Aachem Friedrickshafen—were entrusted with the most important cargo, the Princess of Györ. With them traveled her bodyguard, Matthias, her maid, Ursula Bratislava, Reynard and Chercheur. In the succeeding barge came a more boisterous crew: the forest archers—Wolfgang and Arnold Heilbronn; the dwarf, Paraclesius; Till Eulen, the high tenor; the knight, Ritter Schnabel; and the two younger Alsatians, Cheval and Lunéville.

*

The rafts were twenty feet in length, with heavy hulls, and dull prows. The gunwales rose two feet above the level of the river. Aft a platform elevated a low poop over the shallow hold. The rafts had a single mast, a third of the distance from bow to stern. The masts were a little taller than the length of the rafts and flew a lug and jib. They were solid, plain craft, practical and inelegant. Four men could crew them under the most taxing circumstance. Neither rapids nor rocks hindered their progress; they moved along the Rhine and its tributaries with the lumbering determination of a hunting bear. As they boarded the rafts Wolfgang Heilbronn overheard Peter Friedrickshafen ask the princess her name; she stammered and averted her eyes. Ursula Bratislava answered for her: Lady Ysabella.

Lady Ysabella, Ritter Schnabel echoed adoringly. Till Eulen wiped a tear away with the harlequin sleeve of his tunic, jingling the small silver bells on his cap. The baritone, looking sternly upon their susceptible constitutions, took a long draught from the beer barrel in the rafts stern and made a manly scowl. His short legs widely spaced he spread his stubby hands out and began to sing:

Warum ist es am Rhein so schön?

Wo die Mädchen so lustig, und die Männer so dürstig?

Chapter 2

My daughters: Benedicta, Rosana, and Divitia. My sons, Marcus and Bruno. My wife, Chlotida. Bauer Bokbinder’s family bowed proudly before the princess’ entourage.

Rather, Paraclesius said with a bold and roving eye. It had been better to call them Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia…and the mother, Eurynome.

And the sons? Wolfgang Heilbronn snickered.

Pythias and Damon. They can be none other, the dwarf declared. The handsome children of the furrier Bokbinder blushed at the musician’s flattering comparison. Wolfgang Heilbronn had known the family since the eldest girl was a pixie of five years. Benedicta Bokbinder had progressed in society to where boys her own age (how few she knew!) were bragging cockerels—while the Heilbronn archers were heroes in marble. On went chivalry’s ritual quadrille of amour (although the only one present—besides the princess— known to have even the most fragile connection to nobility was Ritter Schnabel, with his fruit-bowl crest and his moth eaten livery.) The comely little daughters of the peasant Bokbinder hungrily dropped dark long eyelashes over their clear blue eyes—a thrust more deadly than any dagger, a sting more disabling than any hornet’s prick.

Peter Friedrickshafen inquired after Ritter Waldmeister.

A strange thing, said Bokbinder. We received a message.

What sort of a message? asked Peter Friedrickshafen.

A missive—some parchment attached to the last of the barrels. Here it is; can you read it?

Paraclesius! Lend us your scholar’s eye. The dwarf reluctantly tore himself away from languid audience of the youngest Bokbinder maiden—little Divitia—into whose flaxen hair he had woven a crown of wild flowers, giving her the appearance of an Athenian nymph. It says, the baritone knit his thick brows over his brown eyes. That evil has come to Kreis Waldmeister and that his tenants are bade flee ere they be overwhelmed by avaricious malice.

What! Bokbinder cried in dismay. His wife wept with terror and seized the two boys—Marcus and Bruno—in the yeasty envelopment of her large white arms.

What sort of evil, do you suppose? Eulen asked fearfully. Plague?

Matthias glowered at Eulen and then frowned fiercely at Ursula Bratislava, who ignored him.

Not plague, Peter Friedrickshafen mused. If it were plague, it would start downstream ere it reached this lonely forest—and nary a bell has been rung in Wald Holzmenge save upon the hour ere we set out to Kreis Waldmeister.

A giant, perhaps, said Paraclesius, winking at Wolfgang Heilbronn.

In my travels I have encountered numerous evils, growled Cheval. But none beyond the art of a friar or a barber. If this evil has a face it can be shorn from the shoulders that bear it.

A quest, Paraclesius intoned.

A quest, Aachem Friedrickshafen said impatiently. Is to deliver ten tuns of wine and the Princess of Hungary to her fiancé in Dortmund. Have we time to chase phantoms?

It is my experience that a phantom left unexorcised broadens his grim domain to envelop them that left his haunt uncleansed, Ritter Schnabel observed. I would stare ever to the south and east, should I leave this stone unturned.

We are under contract to deliver a flower to a hummingbird—not direct it into a spider web!

The princess of Györ blushed terribly; she murmured something to Ursula Bratislava. My mistress bids you to release Ritter Waldmeister von Holzmenge from what ever danger assaults his person, retainers and property, the Hungarian maid said a little sarcastically

Then she is a Daughter of Empire, Ritter Schnabel announced. And I will do as she directs.

Pompous idiot, Matthias hissed secretly to Chercheur, who nodded furtively.

Paraclesius leapt onto the stump of a larch tree and addressed them generally: My dear friends, these are great times. He lives days of chivalry when a man is measured not by the grimness of his hand but by the greatness of his heart. Let us go at once to the cousin of our noble fellow-pilgrim, Ritter Schnabel, and release him from whatever fell influence has yoked this worthy bullock!

The argument continued. The two retainers of the Lady of Györ opposed deviating from the schedule. Till Eulen promptly agreed with them. "Lâcheté," Cheval growled to Lunéville. Whether or not Matthias understood French, the intonation was clear enough. His hand trembled on the hilt of his great sword; Cheval spat rudely over the side of the wharf. Lunéville and Cheval made a case for storming the keep of the enemy without knowing who he was or whether he had a keep to storm. It was clear that the Heilbronn archers favored action, too. Reynard frowned, scratched his jaw, and finally sided with his younger brothers. Aachem Friedrickshafen said he was under contract to protect ten tuns of wine and a princess; he suggested carrying the Bokbinder family to the safety of the next bridge and then returning with soldiers from Heidelberg. Peter Friedrickshafen and Chercheur finally sighed and agreed with Ritter Schnabel that unless the danger was suppressed at once, it might progress even further ere they returned to the south. No one consulted Ysabella von Györ, who diverted her eyes from Matthias’s accusatory glare.

And so, after the wine was cached on the barges, a party was dispatched to investigate the Waldmeister’s ominous message, taking as their guide the eldest daughter of Bokbinder, Benedicta. At first there was some protest over this. Herr Bokbinder and (especially) Frau Bokbinder loathed placing their treasured child in the custody of unwed men. Then Benedicta pointed out that this morning the danger had been just as real, and they had happily collected perch and bracken in ignorance of it. Against the force of this logic the mother and father retreated, lamenting the impetuosity of their eldest child. The princess (and the wine) was secured on the barges under guard, anchored some distance from Bokbinder’s dock.

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Benedicta had often assisted her father in retrieving his snares, and she knew well the path leading to Schloss Waldmeister. Beside her crept Wolfgang Heilbronn. Several paces behind them two of the French soldiers navigated frequent rocks and roots, their swords loose in the leather scabbards slung over their shoulders. Last, out of the sight of the others, Arnold Heilbronn loped like a marauding wolf. No one spoke. Now and then a mighty stag bellowed from among the trees; here and there a shuffling, snorting growl meant that a badger or a hog had found a nest of warm eggs or a stump filled with sweet honey.

At last Benedicta paused and held up her hand with the palm out. Half a league behind them—far out of sight and sound—Arnold Heilbronn stopped, also. He had observed a subtle change in the birds’ music. Benedicta beckoned and Wolfgang knelt next to her. She put one hand on his shoulder for balance and then leaned far forward, pointing down a steep slope to a secret road. Wolfgang nodded silently after a moment and gestured without turning his head. Hunched low like apes the Alsatians moved forward beside them. The byway above which they crouched was an old Roman turnpike built from great paving stones worn smooth by the wood and iron wheels of chariot and wagon. So ingeniously engineered was the road, so artfully were the stones placed that no grass grew between them: a thousand years after its construction this effort of Septimius Severus remained an easy progress for a caravan of gypsies.

The gypsies were marauders. They had apparently made captive a rival clan whose men stumbled, articulated by a heavy cable that stretched from the waist of one man to the man behind him. The children and women of the captive tribe were jammed, trussed like market-bound goats, into a large open wagon. All of the captives had rags secured about their mouths. The gypsies of the victorious party wore hoods that blended into the dappled shadows, through which they progressed, riding stolen horses of various liveries. The passage of this grisly parade consumed several minutes. The witnesses remained motionless while a shadow bounded down the broad flat stones of the Roman road in pursuit, holding a longbow in his left hand. The right hand he held up towards the hidden observers, although he did not look in their direction.

How long must we wait? Cheval asked angrily after a moment, slapping away a gnat.

We will wait until Arnold Heilbronn returns. Benedicta leaned against a mossy outcropping of limestone and shut her eyes, lulled by the gentle noise of the wind in the beech and oak leaves and the butterflies flickering among the shafts of heady golden light.

What is the meaning of this brutality? Lunéville asked Wolfgang in a harsh whisper.

A rival lover? A spurned bridegroom? A lame horse? Wolfgang shrugged. "In all my dealings with the Zigeuner of Holzmenge I have understood them but little."

A few hours later Wolfgang Heilbronn and Benedicta Bokbinder awoke to the plaintive coos of a lonely vagrant owl. The shadow where they had hidden was now an abyss of blackness: the golden light of afternoon, now the red light of evening. Crickets chirped from a thousand unseen orchestral pits. The owl called again. Noiselessly, the two Alsatian brothers sat erect. A moment later Arnold trotted past, looking furtively from right to left. Wolfgang answered the signal and the second archer joined them.

I have seen the castle. It is a fair turret. The gypsies took their prisoners over the bridge and through the gatehouse. The doors were shut and the bolt was put into place. I heard screams from within but I dared approach no closer, lest I be discovered. Lunéville, Arnold and Benedicta started back through the forest to inform the party at Bokbinder’s landing of the danger. Wolfgang and Cheval waited half an hour; then the Frank grunted. You have no intention of resting useless here, he announced.

Nor have I any intention of leaving you here alone to face the dangers of the wold.

"Blagueur!" the Alsatian snorted.

They followed the Roman road: Wolfgang now carried the bow in his left hand and a pair of arrows in his right. Wooden shoes, the Alsatian grunted to himself. I might just as well sing the Heidelberg students’ songs of that blasted dwarf!

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Ursula Bratislava sighed irritably. The rest of the pilgrims dozed; the current was gentle and the afternoon sultry. Ursula Bratislava chuffed again and returned her attention to the river, moodily draping her arm over the gunwales where it planed up and down in the clear water. Ugh! she suddenly yelped. The Hungarian bodyguard awoke instantly. (Their charge—Ysabella von Györ—slept fitfully on under the canopy the Friedrickshafen archers had rigged for her to protect her porcelain skin. Now and then the princess wept, dreaming fearfully of her marriage to the heir of Dortmund.)

What is it? Aachem Friedrickshafen asked.

I don’t know, Ursula Bratislava answered cautiously. Something brushed my hand. It hit the bottom of the raft.

I felt that, said Reynard. So did I, said Chercheur. A snag? Matthias crouched on his heels, holding with one hand to the mast of the raft while he leaned precariously over the side.

No, said Peter. I know the landing well: we have many rods of water below us.

A tree, then, floating past beneath the surface? the Hungarian pressed.

What I felt was no tree, Ursula Bratislava said stiffly. It felt like a fish—or a snake.

"We sailed to the Holy Land in a Genoa caravel. Along the breadth of the Mediterranean dwell fishes that snap up whatever refuse is tossed from the deck—even corpses. The Ghibilline pilots told us a certain man by mishap fell into the sea and ere he could be recovered one of these fishes strove upon him and devoured him. Ship followers, the Italians called them. They are the evil corruption of Orpheus’ heroic familiar." Reynard frowned at the memory.

I have traveled this river for twenty years and I have heard of stranger things. There was a story of a nymph—Lorelei. Well, one night after delivering a flock of sheep for the celebration of Easter at Worms I thought I saw her bathing in the shallows. Ere I could call her name she was changed into a sleek otter, which dived into the deep water and fled my entreaties, said Paraclesius. In her place was left a fat woman with the face and bosom of a suckling sow and—

Listen! Aachem interrupted him. In the distance a powerful note echoed over the slow black waters of the Neckar. The Princess of Hungary opened her eyes and looked about fearfully. Her maid shrugged and peered back into the water. The two crusaders kept still, their hands on the hilts of their broadswords. The Hungarian soldier squared his shoulders and stared into the forest, from whence clanging horns and shrill cries issued. The two archers danced to opposite sides of the raft, their bows in one hand and the feathered end of an arrow in the other. The rafts drifted a little on the anchor cable.

What noise is that? Chercheur finally asked. Hunting?

War, the Hungarian soldier declared. He splashed ashore and joined Ritter Schnabel.

Perhaps, Aachem frowned.

Quiet! Peter hissed. He peered into water where Ursula Bratislava pointed.

You saw it too? she intoned.

Yes; a body like a huge snake. It seemed to follow Matthias.

What is it? Ysabella von Györ asked quietly

In Palestine I met a Greek who had journeyed into Libya, Reynard frowned. The Greek said that in Libya there are serpents that can swallow a horse.

We have plied this river twenty good years, Aachem shook his head. We have no such serpents.