Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [151]
Eugen sat at Manfred’s right and Kunigund, his left. Beside them were Dietrich and Will, with Malachai the Jew to Will’s right. Malachai’s wife and daughter remained in seclusion, disappointing Eugen, who had anticipated the exotic sight of veiled women. Lady Rosamund was hardly compensation.
To Einhardt’s left, at the table’s foot sat Thierry von Hinterwaldkopf. The knight had already delivered his required service-days, but Manfred hoped to induce him to serve additional days from love to help hunt the outlaws.
In the corner beside the fireplace, Peter Minnesinger sat with his two assistants. “If it please mine Herr,” he said, twisting his strings until they sang true, “I would sing from Parzival.”
“Not that horrid French tale!” Einhardt complained.
“No, lord knight.” Peter draped his hair and settled the lute upon his lap. “I would sing Wolfam von Eschenbach’s version, which all men know is the noblest rendition of the story.”
Manfred waved a hand. “Something less weighty,” he said. “Something touching love. Play Falcon Song.” A devotee of the New Art, Peter oft complained of Manfred’s fondness for the old-fashioned minnesong, in which all was figure and symbol, and would have preferred a more modern lyric, in which real people moved through real landscapes. Falcon Song was, however, artfully constructed, and no line could be changed without spoiling its symmetry. Its author, anonymous as poets of olden days often were, was known only as “He of Kürenburg.”
“I raised me a falcon for more than a year
When I had him tamed as I’d have him be
And I’d dressed his feathers with rich golden bands,
Aloft high he soared and flew to other lands.
Since then have I seen him gracefully flying:
Sporting upon his foot silken tyings
And his coat of feathers glittered golden.
May God bring together who would lovers remain.”
Listening, Dietrich marveled at how God could appear in sudden and unexpected places, for Falcon Song had given him God’s answer to the problem of Ilse and Gerd. It mattered not that Ilse had been baptized and Gerd had not, for God would bring lovers together.
And more than lovers. Had Dietrich not raised Theresia as he’d have her be? Had she not “flown to other lands”? Had he not seen her since, “gracefully flying”? Surely, God would bring them together once again. A tear wound its way down his cheek and Kunigund, ever attentive to those about her, noticed, and placed her hand on his.
AFTERWARD, AMID the clatter of silverware and krautstrunks, table-talk settled on matters of the world. The House of Bardi had followed the House of Peruzzi into insolvency, Ockham told them, and Malachai added that silver had become scare. “It is all going East, to the Sultan to pay for silk and spices.”
Dietrich said, “In his tractate on money, that mine Herr gave me, young Oresme wrote that money can be understood just as the rainbow or magnetism. He states that, ‘If the prince sets a ratio on the coins that differs from the values of silver to gold in the market, the underrated coin will vanish from circulation, and the overrated alone remains current.’”
“A philosophy of money?” said Ockham.
“Silver does buy more gold in the East,” Malachai said, tugging his beard.
“So it ‘flies to others lands!’” laughed Kunigund.
“May God not keep silver asunder from those who love it,” added Thierry with a sly glance at the Jew.
“Bah!” said Einhardt. “Then the prince merely fixes the prices of silver and gold in the market to match the values he sets on the coin.”
“Perhaps not,” Dietrich replied. “Jean Olivi argued that a thing’s price derives from the assessments of those who seek to buy it—regardless what merchants demand or princes decree or however much labor went into its making.”
Ockham laughed. “It’s Buridan’s wicked influence. Oresme is his pupil, as was Brother Angelus, here.” He nodded to Dietrich. “And another from Saxony, called ‘Little Albert,’ is already much talked of. Ah, Dietl, you should have stayed at Paris. They would speak of you in the same way.”
“I leave fame for others,” Dietrich