Eifelheim (50 page)

“‘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 potitical 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
Gräfin
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. Ha-hah! 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 lazaret 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.

O
N 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 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 that I saw nothing.”

“Thank you, old friend.” The two embraced and Dietrich helped Will mount.

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.

A
FTER 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.