Eifelheim

XIX. June, 1349 At Nones, The Commemoration of Bernard of Menthon

Manfred styled his banquet “a symposium,” and promised a quodlibet between Dietrich and Ockham as the post-prandial entertainment. But as some entertainments were not to everyone’s taste, this did not supplant Peter’s singing or the dwarf’s acrobatics or the juggler’s display of plates and knives. The dwarf’s trained dog drew but a pursed lip from Will Ockham; but Kunigund and Eugen laughed hugely, especially when the dog tugged the dwarf’s hose down to reveal his bare ass. Einhardt, like Manfred, paid more particular attention to the singing. “Einhardt has held me ill,” Manfred had confided earlier to Dietrich, “for missing the bohorts, so this is my peace to him.” Dietrich, having verified the knight’s famous stink, gave thanks that his corpulent wife, Lady Rosamund, sat between them.

The sideboard was laden with game birds and aged venison, and continually refreshed by a never-ceasing bustle of servants bearing platters, retrieving empty trenchers, and spreading on the floor fresh rushes mixed with flowers to surrender their scents when stepped upon. Behind each seat a page awaited the diner’s every need. Tarkhan ben Bek, brushed and combed into respectability, did service for his master, for Malachai’s rites did not permit him to eat of Manfred’s bounty, but only of his own provisions, prepared under his supervision. Normally, two of Manfred’s hounds would prowl the room, scavenging scraps that fell from the table; but, from respect for the Jew’s sensibilities, the animals had been barred from the feast. Their piteous howling could be heard faintly from the kennels outside.

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.”

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 answered curtly.

When talk turned later to politics, Ockham recounted the infamous progress of the Wittelsbach court through Italy twenty years before, when they had burned the Pope in effigy. “After all,” he said, “what say has a Frenchman in the election of the Roman Kaiser?”

“Sauwohl!” said Einhardt, saluting with his cup.

“I had thought to use this as the topic for the disputation,” said Manfred, gesturing with a haunch of venison for the wine to be poured. “Tell us your arguments, Brother Ockham, if they are not merely that you ate at Ludwig’s table?”

Ockham rested his chin on his palm and curled one finger by his ear. “Mine Herr,” he said after a moment. “Marsiglio wrote that no one could gainsay the prince in his own land. Of course, he meant that ‘Jacques de Cahors’ could not gainsay Ludwig — which pleased Ludwig greatly. And what he really meant was that he was a Ghibelline, and blamed the Pope for every ill in Italy.”

“’Ghibelline’,” said Einhardt. “Why cannot the Italians pronounce ‘Vibligen’?”

Manfred studied the back of his hand. “And you did not agree…?”

Ockham spoke cautiously. “I argued that, in extremis, and if the prince is become a tyrant, then it is legitimate for another prince- even a pope — to invade his country and overthrow him.”

Einhardt expelled his breath and Thierry stiffened. Even Manfred grew still.

“As the Breisgau lords,” Dietrich interjected quickly, “overthrew von Falkenstein.”

Einhardt grunted. “Outlaws, doch.” The sudden tension eased.

Manfred cast Dietrich an amused glance. He tossed the bone of his venison to the floor and turned again to Ockham. “And how are we to know when the prince is become a tyrant?”

Ockham’s page refilled the Englishman’s krautstrunk and Ockham took a swallow before answering. “You have heard the maxim, ‘What has pleased the prince has the force of law.’ But I glossed that, ‘What pleases the prince reasonably and justly for the sake of the common good has the force of law.’”

Manfred studied his guest carefully and rubbed his cheek. “The prince,” he said, “has always in mind the common good.”

Ockham nodded. “Naturally, a prince who rules with God’s law in his heart will do so; but men are sinners, and princes are men. So, men have certain natural rights directly from God, which the prince may not alienate. The first such: a man has a right to his own life.”

Eugen gestured with his knife. “But he may be murdered by an enemy, or fall to the pest or other injury. What right to life has a man drowning in a river?”

Ockham raised his forefinger. “That a man possesses a natural right to his own life means only that his defense of that life is legitimate, not that his defense will be successful.” He spread his hands. “As for other natural rights, I number the right to freedom against tyranny, and the right to property. That last he may forego, when in so doing he pursues his own happiness.” Ockham cut into a sausage set before him by a page. “As the Spirituals do in imitation of the poverty of the Lord and His Apostles.”

Thierry laughed. “Good. That leaves more for the rest of us.”

Ockham waved a dismissal. “But with Ludwig dead, every man must look to himself, so I am for Avignon to make my peace with Clement. This really is a most excellent sausage.”

Einhardt slapped the table. “You are thin for a monk, but I see you have a monk’s appetite.” Then, turning to Eugen he said, “Tell me how you won that scar,” and, flushing, the young Ritter recounted his deeds at Burg Falkenstein. At the tale’s conclusion, the imperial knight raised a cup to him, “Old strokes, worn with honor!” he cried.

He and Manfred then refought the battle of Mühldorf, where Einhardt had ridden for Ludwig Wittelsbach and Manfred for Friedrich Hapsburg, each of whom had sought the imperial crown.

“Ludwig cut a fine figure,” Einhardt wheezed, “You must’ve remarked it, Ockham. You knew him. Very striking body, tall and slender. How he loved to dance and hunt stags!”

“For which reason,” Manfred countered, “the imperial dignity sat lightly upon him.”

“No gravitas?” Einhardt swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Well, your Hapsburgs are grave. I’ll give you that. Old Albrecht couldn’t pass the table salt without pondering the political implications. Hah! Before your time, I think. I was only a junker, myself. ‘Hard as diamond,’ that’s what folks said about him.”

“Yes,” said Manfred. “Look at what he did in Italy.”

Einhardt blinked. “Albrecht did nothing in Italy.”

Manfred laughed and slapped the table. “Just so. He once said, ‘Italy’s a lion’s den. Many tracks go in; none come out.’” The table broke out in laughter.

The older knight shook his head. “Never understood why Ludwig went in there. Nothing south of the Alps but Italians. Can’t turn your back on ’em.”

“It was at Marsiglio’s urging,” Ockham said. “He hoped the emperor would settle the civil wars there.”

Manfred plucked a fig from the bowl and caught it in his mouth. “Why shed German blood to settle Italy’s quarrels?”

Einhardt said, “Now, the Luxemburgers are the sort the minnesingers warble over. Karl keeps his purse open for ’em, so I suppose they’ll sing about him, too. That’s why I followed Ludwig. Between your dour Hapsburgers and the flighty Luxemburgers, the Wittelsbachs are plain-spoken, beer-drinking German folk, as simple as this sausage.”

“Yes,” said Manfred, “as simple as that sausage.”

Einhardt smiled. “Well, they’d have to be fools to want the crown at all.” He frowned over a dish of blancmange the servant set before him. “This, I must say, is more like a Luxemburger.”

Thierry said, “Speaking of all that, what’s become of old ‘Pocket Mouth’?”

Malachai the Jew answered. “We heard in Regensburg that Grafin Margaret remains loyal to her new husband and the Tyrolean revolt is over.”

“No blame to her,” said Thierry. “Her first husband was both stupid and impotent. A wife might endure one or the other, but not both.”

“Hah!” said Manfred raising a cup. “Well said!”

“Marriage is a sacrament,” Dietrich objected. “I know you defended Ludwig on this, Will, but not even an emperor may annul a marriage.”

Einhardt leaned past his lady and shook a fork at Dietrich. “No, a marriage is an alliance. The Great Houses,” he said, tapping his temple, “they are planning decades ahead — decades! — shoving their children like chess pieces into the marriage beds of the Empire. But that is where Ludwig was so clever — for a sausage-head. ‘Pocket-Mouth’ detested Hans-Heinrich, but she would not discard a marriage-alliance with Luxemburg without obtaining another of equal value. So, Ludwig gives her a divorce — and then marries her to his own son!” He smacked the table with his palm so that the cups danced. “So, pfft! Luxemburg loses the Tyrol to Wittelsbach.”

“For so clever a move,” Thierry said, “it proved a bit too obvious.”

“So,” said Einhardt, “Ludwig makes a second chess-move. He holds Bavaria, and his son holds now the Tyrol and the Brandenburg Mark, which neatly surrounds Bohemia — in case Luxemburg makes the trouble, ja? So when the other Houses complain of the nepotism, he takes Carinthia from the Tyrol, which changes nothing but makes everyone happy.”

“And you’ll notice,” added Manfred, “that Hapsburg gained Carinthia — without the need to kiss the Ugly Duchess.”

More laughter. Einhardt shrugged. “What matter? Luxemburg rules Europe now. You’ll not see a Hapsburg again on the imperial throne.”

Manfred smiled at his own blancmange. “Perhaps not.”

“Three votes sit in Luxemburg’s pocket.”

“With four needed,” Thierry said. “Have they resolved the dispute in Mainz?”

Einhardt shook his head. “The Pope’s new lapdog — who is it?” He snapped his fingers.

“Gerlach of Nassau,” Ockham told him.

“The very man. He’s tells everyone he’s the new archbishop, but Heinrich won’t surrender his See. You see how clever all this is? Gerlach is nobody. Who fears House Nassau holding Mainz?”

“If he can oust Count Heinrich,” said Thierry.

“So.” Einhardt counted off on his fingers. “Karl holds the Bohemian vote himself, and his brother Baldwin is archbishop of Trier. That’s two. And when House Luxemburg says, ‘frog,’ Archbishop Waldrich asks how high he should jump. Except he thinks he is King of Frogs. Hahah! So Köln’s vote makes three. As for the Wittelsbachs… Well, little Ludwig holds Brandenburg, as I’ve said; and his brother Rudolf is Count Palatine, which makes two votes. With Mainz uncertain, both families play court to the other Rudolf, the Duke of Saxe-Wittenburg. Hah! House Welfen holds the balance!”

Manfred said mildly, “The balance will change before the electoral college need vote again. Yet… No one thought Ludwig would drop dead, either.”

“The Kaiser’s party was hunting in the woods around Fürstenfeld,” Ockham remembered. “I was at the lodge with the others when they brought him in. A peasant found him lying in the field beside his horse, as if he had no more than fallen asleep.”

“A man in the summer of his life, too,” Einhardt said. “Apoplexy, I heard.”

“Too many sausages,” Manfred suggested.

“He did not die hungry,” Ockham admitted.

“Nor will I,” said Einhardt. “This is excellent food, Manfred. Too bad not all of us can enjoy it.” He glanced at Malachai. “Now, what’s this I hear about your guesting demons?”

The question, coming unexpectedly as it did, brought momentary silence to the table.

“I have founded a lazar in the Great Wood,” Manfred said casually. “The lepers there are hideous in appearance, but are mortal as you or I.” Thierry grinned at nothing; Eugen looked into his cup. Lady Kunigund watched her father. Ockham listened with keen interest. Malachai tugged repeatedly at his beard and his eyes missed nothing.

“Hah. Some o’ your men’ve been spreadin’ tales, then,” Einhardt replied. “Said you brought ’em down to Falcon Rock that time.” The old man turned to his wife and said, “Y’see, my dear? Nothin’ to those stories.”

Lady Rosamund was a fleshy, indignant woman. “Then, what of that thing I saw?” She turned to the Hochwalders. “Since two weeks, I hear a strange clicking from my rose garden, but when I look, I see… I don’t know what. Hideous yellow eyes, enormous arms and legs… Like a giant grasshopper. It leapt from the garden into the sky and flew, flew away in this direction. Then I see my roses chewed on and spat on the ground!”

“A giant grasshopper…” said Malachai slowly.

Einhardt patted her arm. “Some beast had gotten into the garden, dear. That was all.” But he studied Manfred with a cool eye.

On the morrow, Dietrich escorted Ockham as far as the pass on the Oberreid road. Ockham led his mule, which he had named “Least Hypothesis,” and he paused and rubbed its nose. He had thrown back his cowl, so that in the dawn his wild hair seemed a laurel of flame against the rising sun. He said, “You’ve let your tonsure to grow out, Dietl.”

“I am a simple priest of the diocese now,” he said, “a mendicant no longer.”

Ockham studied him. “You may have foresworn your vow of poverty, but I cannot say you have gained wealth by doing so.”

“Life here has its gifts.”

“Had you learned to flatter the Kaiser, you would need not live in the back woods.”

“Had you learned to live in the back woods, you would need not flatter the Kaiser.”

Ockham smiled faintly and looked off to the east, toward Munich, Prague, Vienna, the capitals of the Great Houses. “A touch,” he said; and, a moment later, “There was an excitement to it, a feeling that we were accomplishing things in the world. ‘If you defend me with your sword,’ I told Ludwig, ‘I’ll defend you with my pen.’”

“I wonder if he would have, had it come to the test.”

Ockham shrugged. “Ludwig had the better of the bargain. But when he has been long forgotten, men will remember me.”

“Is it so bad a thing,” wondered Dietrich, “to be forgotten?”

Ockham turned away and tightened the cinch on the mule’s saddle. “So tell me about demons and grasshoppers.”

Dietrich had seen him study the church roof and knew he had marked the absence of the “gargoyles.” And Einhardt’s lady had described them.

Dietrich sighed. “There are islands farther even than the canary islands. The very stars of heaven are distant islands, and on them live…”

“Grasshoppers,” suggested Ockham, “rather than canaries.”

Dietrich shook his head. “Beings much as you and I, but bearing an outward form resembling grasshoppers.”

Ockham laughed. “I would accuse you of multiplying entities, saving only…” He glanced again toward the church eaves. “How do you know that these grasshoppers live upon a star?”

“They told me so.”

“Can you be certain that they spoke the truth? A grasshopper may say what it wishes and be no more truthful than a man.”

Dietrich reached into his scrip. “Would you speak with one?”

Ockham studied the head harness that Dietrich brought forth. He touched it gingerly with his finger. “No,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Best I know as little as possible.”

“Ah.” Dietrich looked away. “Manfred told you of the indictment.”

“He asked if I would speak for you before the prosecuting magistrate.”

Dietrich grunted.

“Yes, as if the word of a heretic would carry weight with them. Should any ask concerning matters diabolical during my sojourn here, I can truthfully answer I saw nothing.”

“Thank you, old friend.” The two embraced and Dietrich cupped his hands to give Will a leg up.

Ockham seated himself. “I fear you have wasted your life in this crappy little dorp.”

“I had my reasons.”

And reasons, too, for staying. Dietrich had come to Oberhochwald seeking only refuge, but it was now his corner of the world, and he knew each tree, rock, and stream as if he had had his head banged against them in his youth. He could not live again in Paris. It had seemed better then only because he had been younger, and had not yet known contentment.

After the “Old Inceptor” had ridden away, Dietrich returned to the village, where he encountered his farmer, Herwyg One-eye, on his way to the fields. “He be gone, pastor,” the old man cackled. “And not too soon.”

“So!” Dietrich asked, wondering what possible grudge Herwyg might hold against Ockham.

“Left Niederhochwald this morning, cart, harem, and all. Set out for Freiburg at first light.”

“The Jew?” Dietrich felt suddenly cold in the June sun. “But he was faring to Vienna.”

Herwyg rubbed his chin. “Can’t say; don’t care. He’s a wretched creature. Kurt the swineherd, what is married to my cousin, heard the old Jew say he’d put an end to the Angelus. What infamy! Without the bells, how would folk know when to halt work?”

“The Angelus,” said Dietrich.

Herwyg leaned closer and lowered his voice, though there were none to hear him. “And the wight must’ve caught glimpse o’ your special guests, too. Kurt heard’m exclaim about unclean beasts and flying demons. Kurt, he come up here right off, ’cause he wants t’be the first with news.” Herwyg hawked and spat into the dirt, but whether that signified the Jews, his cousin’s taste in husbands, or merely a phlegmy throat, Dietrich did not wait to hear. He sought the empty church, where, amidst the images of suffering saints and outlandish creatures, he fell to his knees and begged again the absolution that he had begged for more than a decade of years.