The Lady of the Castle (The Marie Series Book 2) Page 40

  The hall seemed huge to Marie, probably because the only furniture inside was the kaiser’s throne and the chairs of the highest-ranking lords. Marie grinned, thinking about how those chairs had been the objects of so many bitter arguments. Each of the noble lords wanted to outdo the others, and their followers fought more passionately about the height of the backrests and the number of decorative gemstones than their masters fought about political issues.

  Scanning the hall, Marie recognized a few familiar faces, connecting coats of arms to individual people and families. The young Counts of Württemberg were present, as were the count palatine, the elector of Saxony, and the Dukes of Bavaria. Dietmar von Arnstein, a knight and friend from her days as a wandering harlot, had arrived with the Württemberg retinue. Since he almost never traveled without his wife, Lady Mechthild was probably also there, and Marie was looking forward to seeing her again.

  The herald stopped a few paces in front of the kaiser. Though dressed majestically in his usual red and gold, he was slumped down on his throne with a gray, sunken face, and he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. The court official stepped to the side so that Sigismund could see his visitors. “Count Wenzel von Falkenhain with his wife and daughter,” he said, introducing Václav by his German name.

  Sigismund graciously nodded at the count, then glanced at the others. On seeing Michel, he struggled to get up, staring at him wide-eyed.

  “Knight of the Reich Michel Adler with his wife,” the herald shouted into the hall.

  Michel had managed to keep the news of his survival a secret until then, and the kaiser shook his head in confusion.

  His face softening, Sigismund looked like a man who’d just seen a good omen. He jumped to his feet and walked joyfully toward Michel. “By God the Almighty, will wonders never cease! Welcome back, Sir Michel! I’m glad to see you alive and well. Where have you been for all these months?”

  “At Falkenhain Castle, to preserve it for Your Majesty. It is only thanks to him I can stand in front of you today,” Count Sokolny explained for Michel.

  Marie wasn’t paying any attention to the kaiser or to the conversation, but rather gazed along the rows of gaping noblemen until she spotted Falko von Hettenheim, who had been talking to his father-in-law, Rumold von Lauenstein, but was now staring at Michel open-mouthed. His bewilderment turned to horror when he recognized her as well.

  A satisfied smile darted across Marie’s face. Tugging at Michel’s sleeve, she tilted her chin at Falko. “As nice as it is to stand before the kaiser, don’t forget our enemy!”

  “What enemy?” asked Sigismund, who’d heard the word despite Marie’s muted voice.

  Michel straightened up, and his calm voice seemed to echo from the walls. “The knight Falko von Hettenheim! I hereby accuse him of dishonorable conduct. Out of envy and malevolence, he intentionally abandoned me on the battlefield when I was wounded, so that I’d fall into the Hussites’ hands.”

  Falko winced as if he’d been whipped, then pushed his way to the front through the rows of noblemen, his face twisted in anger. “You’ll pay with your life for that slur, you innkeeper’s brat!”

  “Since the kaiser deemed me worthy of becoming a knight of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, your words are an insult to him as well,” Michel replied evenly.

  Seething with fury, Falko gripped the hilt of his sword while Michel remained perfectly composed. Sigismund’s eyes darted between Michel and Falko, and he furrowed his brow. Highly superstitious, the kaiser interpreted Michel’s return as a sign that heaven was ready to place Bohemia’s crown on his head once again. The message Václav Sokolny had brought was a chance for him to get the Bohemian nobility back on his side, and he wouldn’t let anyone spoil that opportunity. Remembering rumors that Sir Falko had slaughtered defenseless Bohemian peasants rather than fighting the Hussite enemy, the kaiser assumed those people wholeheartedly hated Falko, and he realized he’d have to sacrifice the knight if he wanted to ensure the Bohemian nobles’ gratitude and loyalty. It wasn’t hard for him to make that sacrifice, as the older Hettenheim had promised much but delivered little, while Michel Adler had served him well and was possibly the driving force behind the Calixtines’ peace offering.

  The kaiser raised his hand to silence his chattering court. “A knight’s honor has been attacked,” he began, narrowing his eyes as Sir Falko’s friends noisily exclaimed their approval. But they soon quieted down when Sigismund continued in a stern voice. “If Michel Adler’s accusation is true, then a damnable crime has taken place against him, which can only be atoned for by death.”

  Falko von Hettenheim howled with anger. “Lies, nothing but scurrilous lies!”

  Marie pushed to the front so she could face the man.

  “I don’t think so, Sir Knight! When I was searching for my husband, I spoke to many who denied your honor and courage and blamed you for my husband’s disappearance.”

  “Bah! What nonsense! Who pays any attention to the words of a whore?” Falko von Hettenheim tried to clothe himself in arrogance, but his voice was trembling, and his words only further infuriated the kaiser.

  “I declared Lady Marie a noblewoman of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, and whoever defames her insults a sacred person! You will have to answer with your lance, Sir Falko.”

  Falko realized he’d lost the kaiser’s favor and that his word at court was now worth less than that of a servant. “I’ll dispatch to hell any knight who dares to challenge me!”

  “I dare!” Heribert von Seibelstorff shouted loudly.

  Michel placed his hand on the Junker’s shoulder and shook his head. “I honor your motives, but this is my fight. I have to do now what I didn’t do three years ago, thereby bringing grief and misery to so many people. I swear I will kill this traitor and slanderer, and then go on a pilgrimage to the Fourteen Holy Helpers at Staffelstein to atone for my guilt at the death of all those innocent people.”

  “The only way you’ll make it there is in a coffin, innkeeper’s brat!” Falko von Hettenheim jeered, and looked around for approval, but his peers turned away, not deigning to look at him anymore.

  Taking stock of his enemy, Michel noted with satisfaction that the man had become plump and portly, and moved with a certain heaviness, suggesting a lack of exercise. Falko could afford more lavish clothes than were appropriate for a simple knight, and his rings were adorned with gemstones like those worn by princes. Michel wondered how many people had been murdered and robbed for that splendor, and he felt his hatred for that man threatening to suffocate him.

  He stepped toward Falko, took off his right glove, and slapped it in his enemy’s face. “I challenge you to mortal combat, Falko von Hettenheim, as I’m eager to liberate the world from you.”

  Sir Falko turned as white as a sheet and didn’t move. But when Michel turned his back to assess Sigismund’s reaction to his challenge, Falko went to draw his sword. Before he could fully unsheathe it, János, the kaiser’s bodyguard, whipped out his own sword and held it to the man’s throat. Sheathing his sword again with an angry snort, Falko found himself surrounded by several knights looking at him with contempt.

  The knight Dietmar von Arnstein put his hands on his hips. “That was truly dishonorable!”

  The kaiser asked his confessor to say a prayer, and folded his hands. Then looking at Falko in disgust, he stated his decision. “Sir Michel and you will ride into the lists tomorrow, so God can reward the just and punish the unjust.”

  “I’m ready,” Michel declared plainly.

  “Tomorrow you will die, you dog!” Sir Falko exclaimed, spitting on the ground before brusquely turning away.

  Grasping Michel’s arm, Marie gazed at him with sparkling eyes. “You will beat him! I’m certain of it.”

  12.

  Marie wasn’t as confident as she’d pretended to be and lay awake all night, c
onsumed with agonizing thoughts. Peasants and burghers accused of a crime were tortured immediately to force a confession, but because they were noblemen, murderers and slanderers like Falko von Hettenheim were granted the chance to prove their innocence in a duel. Even though everyone said God would help the right man to victory, Marie had seen and experienced enough to doubt divine justice. She didn’t want to lose Michel again. If she could have figured out a way, she would have poisoned Falko, but since she lacked the means to do so, the only thing left was to pray silently and beg the Holy Virgin to protect her husband once more. Heaven had saved him before, after all, and joyously reunited him with his wife and child. Marie’s worries eased at the thought of Trudi. For her sake alone Michel wouldn’t do anything reckless or underestimate Hettenheim.

  Marie remembered another night three years before when she’d also lain sleeplessly next to her husband, not knowing what the future would bring. Now that time had come again. Carefully turning over onto her side, she made sure not to disturb Michel, since he needed to get a good night’s rest to be ready for the next day. Yet she stayed lost in the waking nightmares spinning around in her head, and was glad to finally see the first signs of the new morning creeping through the window.

  Shortly after, someone knocked on the door. Marie slipped out of bed, threw her dressing gown around her shoulders, and opened the door to a maid bringing water for washing. Just as she had three years ago, Marie gently woke her husband and helped him get ready. The kaiser had sent him new clothes: a white shirt of the finest linen, a woolen tunic, and a white surcoat with a black cross pattée, indicating that Michel had taken part in a sacred crusade against the Hussites. When he was ready, he walked down the stairs hand in hand with Marie and entered the room where their host’s wife was preparing breakfast. Three squires from Sigismund’s retinue were awaiting him, carrying armor and weapons from the kaiser’s personal armory, and Marie knew that Sigismund’s attentiveness showed that he wanted Michel to win.

  Sigismund’s chaplain was with them, to say Mass for Michel and hear his confession. Marie also knelt down in prayer, but since she didn’t want to leave Michel’s success solely in the hands of heaven, she made sure he took a light but nourishing breakfast after Mass, and then supervised Anselm and Görch putting on Michel’s armor. After he was dressed, Marie kept walking around him, admiring the fine figure her husband cut in the kaiser’s gifts. When he stepped into the courtyard, the polished steel shone like silver, reflecting the bright morning light.

  The kaiser had sent not only the armor, but also a magnificent black horse from Brabant, elegant despite its height and visible strength. Michel let the squires lift him into the saddle and lead him through the gate onto the road. Marie was about to run after him, but Görch stopped her and pointed to a graceful gray mare a servant was leading over. “A gift from the kaiser to you, Lady Marie.”

  Nodding with joy, she managed to climb into the saddle without help, even though she was wearing a rather unwieldy skirt. As the mare followed Michel in a fast trot, the irregular hoofbeats on the cobblestones weren’t the only thing giving away Marie’s lack of equestrian practice. Her new mount was far sprightlier than her old Bunny, and she had her hands full dodging protruding houses and people who didn’t quickly jump out of the way. She was painfully aware that she didn’t look nearly as graceful in the saddle as Janka Sokolna, who had just caught up with her. “Don’t worry, Lady Marie. Pán Michel will beat that dog!”

  “Of course he will.” Marie’s voice was steady, and she even managed a little smile, but she was glad when they reached the gate and left the bustling city behind. The tournament arena where she’d met one-legged Timo had been kept as a practice arena for knights, and it was also where the trial by ordeal was to be held. The kaiser had already taken his seat on the raised platform decorated with precious cloths. Upon seeing Marie, he rose, walked toward her, and offered his hand. Marie climbed down from the saddle, curtsied deeply, and let the kaiser lead her to the padded bench next to the imperial chair, which was designated for the highest lords of the Reich. Sigismund bade her to sit on his right, displaying whose side he was on. Count Sokolny, Heinrich von Hettenheim, and Junker Heribert were also seated among the Reich’s mighty lords near the kaiser.

  Looking neither at her friends nor the lords, who kept curiously glancing at her and whispering to one another, Marie focused on the field in front of her, where Michel and his adversary were undergoing their final preparations. A priest stepped between them, asking them to make their peace with God and giving his blessing. The knights directed their horses toward the kaiser with their visors up, so they could see Michel’s serious, composed expression, and Falko’s face twisted in fury.

  “Fight with God. He will make the worthy man a victor.” With those words, the kaiser stared at Michel and raised his hand in greeting. The two knights lowered their heads as far as their armor allowed them and rode their horses to opposite ends of the lists. The squires handed them long lances decorated with ribbons, which had sharp tips for this battle, and the herald explained the rules one more time before stepping aside. At a sign from the kaiser, the herald lifted his stick, a flourish of trumpets sounded, and when the herald lowered his stick, the two knights spurred their horses.

  For several endless moments, all Marie heard was the noise of accelerating hoofbeats on the hard ground. Then the adversaries struck each other with a dull thud. She saw Michel sway, and she stifled a cry. But he stayed in the saddle, holding up his splintered lance to show that everything was all right. Sir Falko’s lance had also broken, and his rage seemed to have grown since he hadn’t managed to push Michel out of the saddle with the force of his heavier weight. Both were given new lances and again spurred their horses.

  Marie felt her fear drain away and confidence take its place. Though Michel may have been less experienced in the joust than Sir Falko, his enemy was clearly so out of practice that she thought even Junker Heribert would have been able to withstand him.

  The two lances splintered again. This time, Falko von Hettenheim swayed dangerously, only managing to stay in the saddle because his squire ran up and steadied him. “He’ll fall at the next hit,” Marie heard the kaiser mutter. She hoped so, too, but when the two fighters sped toward each other once more, she pressed her hands to her chest to calm her wildly beating heart. The impact was even harder this time. Marie saw Michel sway and didn’t pay any attention to his opponent in her fright.

  The kaiser pointed ahead. “I knew it! There he lies.”

  And indeed, Falko lay on his back like a turtle, waving his arms about helplessly. His squire and some of his retinue ran toward him and helped him to his feet. In the meantime, Michel climbed down from his horse and, after brief consideration, chose a sword as his weapon for close combat. Sir Falko tore his battle-ax from the hands of a servant and stormed toward Michel even before the herald had given the signal to begin.

  “Now you’ll die, you churl!” he screamed, his voice cracking. Michel parried the violent blows of the ax with his shield, but was forced to back off, as his own attacks remained ineffective. He remained coolly serene as he waited for his chance, while Hettenheim soon panted like a run-down horse. But anger and hatred seemed to double Sir Falko’s strength, as he relentlessly continued his attacks, jeering at Michel between breaths to try to force him to make a mistake.

  “Well, how do you feel so close to hell, innkeeper’s brat? The devil must be looking forward to seeing you.” Since Michel didn’t reply, Falko sneered at him. “By the way, I took your harlot, and she’s nothing special at all. Every Czech wench I had was better.”

  Though Falko was clearly waiting for a rash reaction, Michel decided to taunt him instead. “How many men did your wife go to bed with in the hope of getting a son, after you could only give her daughters?”

  “You have only one daughter, and hardly anyone believes the brat’s yours!”

  Miche
l sounded completely unruffled. “Trudi’s parentage is beyond doubt, and unlike yours, my daughter is my heir, while Sir Heinrich will be taking his place on your chair today.”

  Sir Falko flushed scarlet at those words, and his next blow ripped Michel’s shield off his arm. With a triumphant snort, Hettenheim raised his ax high above his head to simultaneously split his opponent’s helmet and skull.

  At that moment, Michel’s sword shot through the air like a glittering snake, hitting his enemy’s visor without penetrating it. For a brief moment, Falko von Hettenheim stood still, as if surprised by the attack. Then he swayed and collapsed like a rotten tree. Thinking it was a ruse, Michel quickly picked up his battered shield.

  As Michel slid his left arm into the loops of the shield, Falko’s squire hurried over and knelt next to his master. “Sir! What’s the matter? Please answer me!”

  Since Falko didn’t stir, the squire removed the knight’s helmet—and stared into the eyes of a dead man. The herald came over, and after a brief glance at Falko’s face, he signaled for the kaiser’s doctor. After carefully examining Falko von Hettenheim, the doctor shook his head.

  “The knight is dead, though I can’t find any wound.”

  “It’s a sign from God! He measured Sir Falko’s guilt and condemned him!” the imperial confessor called out in a ringing voice, kneeling to praise the divine justice. The kaiser made the sign of the cross and lowered his head to the heavenly powers.

  Marie looked at Michel, folded her hands, and thanked the Holy Virgin and Holy Mary Magdalene for his victory. Meanwhile, Eva slipped past the guards and grasped Sir Heinrich’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

  “Congratulations, sir, as from now on, you’re the head of the Hettenheim family.”

  With a surly look, Rumold von Lauenstein turned to her. “Your congratulations come a little too soon, you old witch! My daughter’s pregnant again, and this time it’ll certainly be a son.”