Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [74]
At the mouth of the gorge, the stream calmed from torrent to murmuring brook and the narrow valley broadened into green meadows. On the heights above, a square tower commanded the view of the countryside. “Falkenstein’s watchtower,” Max explained. “His burgraf here signals the castle when a party worth plundering passes by. Then Falkenstein sallies forth to block their advance while the men in the watchtower come out to block the retreat.”
IN THE broader, softer Kirchgartner Valley, the track from Falkenstein Gorge met the Freiburg High Road. The Hochwalders circled their wagons for the night and built a fire. Thierry told off men to stand watch. “Safe enough to encamp here,” Max told Dietrich. “If von Falkenstein sallies on this side, he must answer to the Graf of Urach, and that means Pforzheim and the whole Baden family.”
“In olden times,” Dietrich told Gregor as they ate their evening meal, “all caravans were like this. The merchants were armed with bows and swords and were sworn to each other by oaths.”
“Were they?” asked Gregor. “Like an order of knights?”
“Very like. It was called a hans or, in the French, a company, because they ‘shared bread.’ The schildrake carried the banner at the head of the band—as Eugen does—and the hansgraf exercised authority over his brother-merchants.”
“Like Everard.”
“Doch. Save that caravans in those days were much larger and traveled from fair to fair.”
“Those fairs must have been something to see. Sometimes I wish I lived in olden times. Were robber knights more common than now?”
“No, but there were Vikings from the north; Magyars from the east; and Saracens from their stronghold in the Alps.”
“Saracens in the Alps?”
“At Garde-Frainet. They preyed upon merchants and pilgrims crossing between Italy and France.”
“And now we must go to the Holy Land to fight them!”
Thierry overheard and grunted without humor. “If the Sultan feels like attacking me, I know how to defend myself; but if he leaves me alone, I’ll not bother him. Besides, if God is everywhere, why go to Jerusalem to find him?”
Dietrich agreed. “That’s why we now elevate the Host after the Consecration. So folk will know that God is ever-where.”
“Of that, I would not know,” Thierry continued, “but if Jerusalem was so holy, why did so many return grown wicked?” He tossed his head toward the mouth of the gorge. “You’ve heard the story about him?”
Dietrich nodded. “The devil freed his ancestor from the Saracens at the price of his soul.”
Thierry wiped the juices from his plate with a crust of bread. “There is more to the tale.” He put the plate aside and his junker took it for cleaning. The others at the fire clamored for the tale, so the knight wiped hands on knees, looked around the circling faces, and told them.
“The first Falkenstein was Ernst von Schwaben, a goodly knight endowed with all manly virtues—save that Heaven had denied him a son to carry his name to posterity. He took to cursing Heaven over it, which sorely afflicted his pious wife.
“A voice in his dreams told him that to make peace with Heaven, he must make pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The proud Graf was horrified at this terrible penance; but at last he smothered his own desires and departed with Barbarossa on the second great kingly pilgrimage. Before setting forth, he broke his wedding ring and, keeping half, told his wife that if he had not returned in seven years, she should consider their ties no longer binding.
“Na. The German army came to grief and Redbeard drowned; but Ernst pressed on to the Holy Land, where his sword became renowned among the infidels. In one battle, he was captured by the Sultan. With each new moon, his captor offered him release if only he would embrace the religion of Mahomet. Naturally, he refused.
“So passed the years until one day, the Sultan, impressed with his chivalry and fortitude, released him. He wandered through the desert, always toward the setting sun; until, one night as he slept, the Devil came to him.”
“Hah!” said Gregor