Early in the afternoon, the rain finally stopped, and the sun broke through the clouds. Ahead of them rose the rooftops of the city of Speyer, its cathedral towers reaching to the sky. Below them the roofs of the many half-timbered houses surrounding the cathedral precincts, still wet with rain, shone like colorful mushrooms. The city seemed to have grown even larger since Agnes had last visited it. It was surrounded by a tall, recently plastered wall with several watchtowers, and in the background was the harbor, where the broad stream joined the river Rhine.
“You’ll be amazed to see what goes on in the city on market day,” said her father, smiling. “You’ve never seen so many people all at once.”
Several gates were let into the wall, and the two travelers now rode toward the largest of them. It was surmounted by a tall tower and had a broad archway leading through it. The two iron-studded halves of the gate stood wide open, and Agnes and her father joined a line of other people waiting to get into the city. Agnes saw sleepy peasants with carts carrying crates full of radishes, spinach, and other early summer vegetables. An ox cart full of dripping wine casks drove along; there were whinnying horses and people shouting, laughing, and arguing. The air did not smell the same as in Annweiler, where it reeked mainly of rotting leather. Here the mingled smells of vegetables, wine, the river water of the harbor, rare spices, and human body odors were a beguiling mixture. Agnes and her father led their horses through the gateway by their reins, and Agnes felt her mouth open in amazement, as it had when she was a child.
Before her was a promenade as wide as a whole village, with a stream of water running down the middle of it. The magnificent houses of the patricians rose to right and left, and at the eastern end of the street stood the cathedral. Its towers were so tall that they cast long shadows over the forecourt. A colorful crowd was coming and going in the alleyways or strolling among the market stalls. At some of the stalls people were tasting the wares for sale, at others they were haggling, while all the different voices united to make a deafening noise.
“Well, what do you say?” cried her father, laughing. “What scolding and chattering. It makes me feel glad of the peace and quiet at home.”
Agnes nodded absent-mindedly as she observed the crowd. Only at second glance did she notice that very few of them wore good cloth. Most were clad in the poor garments of peasants and the lower class of workmen; some looked emaciated and lingered around the stalls like hungry dogs while stout merchants’ wives showed off their latest gowns and painted faces. The difference between rich and poor seemed far greater here in the city than in the country outside.
At least we are all poor in our neighborhood, thought Agnes. Except for Count Scharfeneck and the Abbot of Eusserthal, of course.
Philipp von Erfenstein pointed to a two-story stone building standing on its own in the middle of the broad promenade. Well-dressed patricians were going in and out of the shade of the arcades on the lower floor.
“The mint,” Erfenstein explained. “The city’s countinghouse, where the merchants do business, is there. Jakob Gutknecht has his establishment there as well. We’ll soon be paying him a visit.” He looked at his daughter, who was still bedraggled from that morning’s rain. “But first let’s take a room at an inn, and you can freshen up a little. You look like a horse-coper’s daughter.”
They turned into a side street where the houses were nothing like as grand as those in the wide main street, stabled their horses at a shabby tavern, and hired a room under its roof. As Erfenstein gave the bowing landlord a few coins, Agnes thought how much this journey had cost her father already. He had had a new dress made for her, and he now carefully unfolded it in their room and held it up to the light. It was of good Flanders cloth, dyed red and trimmed with lace and silver buttons, the kind of garment that might be worn only by the nobility and the families of great lords. Ordinary citizens’ wives could find themselves in the pillory for wearing such a showy gown.
“Here, put that on and comb your hair,” Erfenstein told her brusquely. “We’ll show Gutknecht what a jewel he’s getting in you.”
Agnes swung around, her eyes flashing at her father. She had meant to keep silent, but she couldn’t stand this any longer.
“I’m not a cheap brooch to be bought and sold just like that,” she snapped. “I’m your daughter, have you forgotten? If I’m to marry the son of a cloth merchant, then you might at least treat me like a human being.”
Erfenstein sighed. “Agnes, we’ve discussed this. There’s nothing else for it. Think of Trifels Castle. And furthermore . . .” His eyes twinkled as he looked at her. “Don’t pretend you don’t like the dress. Put it on. You’ll look like a queen.”
“A sad queen,” Agnes said defiantly. All the same, she slipped into the dress, taking care not to let her father see the ring that she wore around her neck. If he did, he might get the idea of selling the gem that she treasured so much to a goldsmith in Speyer.
The dress fit her perfectly. As she stroked its fabric, she felt how soft it was. It fell in gentle folds to her feet, showing off her breasts and hips to good advantage, and it was the most expensive garment she had ever worn.
“It . . . it’s beautiful,” she admitted at last, turning in a circle while the afternoon sunlight fell in through the narrow window.
“There, you see? What can be wrong with wearing it while we pay a visit to this family of moneybags? And, Agnes . . .” Her father raised a finger in warning. “Nothing presumptuous, no sharp remarks, understand?”
“I’ll keep quiet like a good girl about to marry a patrician. Well, let’s get it over and done with.”
Agnes turned away and climbed down the steep stairs to the bar of the tavern, where the few guests looked at her enviously. Out in the street, too, she attracted many glances, particularly from the merchants’ wives, who stared at her, whispering. Her father walked beside her, proud as a peacock. Once again Agnes noticed how clothes change you. She no longer felt like a young girl, but a lady born to high rank.
“These are the big farmers, the carriers, and the free craftsmen who bargain for their pay with the patricians,” Erfenstein whispered to his daughter. “Prices have been falling for years, and the rich merchants on the town council can fix them just as they please.” His face darkened. “We knights have no say in anything these days. Damn slave drivers. To think it should come to this—my own daughter, and I have to let them . . .” He broke off and shook his head. “But never mind that. After all, it’s for the sake of Trifels Castle.”
He asked the way to the cloth merchant Jakob Gutknecht, and then knocked vigorously at one of the doors. When there was no answer, Erfenstein simply walked in. It was not long before he came back to Agnes.
“What is it?” she asked in surprise. “Have we come to the wrong room?”
“We’re to wait,” Erfenstein said through gritted teeth. “Gutknecht is with some customers who obviously matter more than we do.”
At last they were asked in. The merchant Jakob Gutknecht sat at a massive table covered with papers, parchment scrolls, and full coin purses. He was just dropping some guilders, with a clink, onto a pair of scales to check their weight, and had taken no notice of his visitors yet. Only when Erfenstein cleared his throat several times did the patrician look up, in pretended surprise.
“Ah, the castellan of Trifels Castle,” he said in a bored voice. “I’d expected you earlier. Well, never mind that.” Wrinkling his brow, he turned to Agnes. “And this is the feast for sore eyes whom you have praised to me so fulsomely in your letters.”
Agnes managed to produce a thin smile and a curtsy. She could only hope that Gutknecht’s son took after his mother. The merchant was fat and pale, his cap sitting on his head like a black pimple. Two small, red, piggy eyes with large bags under them examined her, moving back and forth all the time. Agnes felt like a beast in a pen at the market.
“How old are you, may I ask?” inquired Gutknecht, as he went on weighing his coins. He still had
not invited his guests to sit down.
“She will be seventeen next month,” her father replied for her, letting himself down on the small stool that stood in front of the merchant’s table. “Agnes is a clever child. Quick-minded, well-read, she can calculate and write . . .”
The merchant waved that away. “If I’d wanted a clerk, I could have spared you your journey. My son and I read the balance sheets. Nothing else is necessary. It matters more to me for his wife to be demure, silent, and not as quarrelsome as my own spouse.” He sighed. “Unfortunately I didn’t pay enough attention to such matters at the time of my marriage.” A touch of suspicion came into Gutknecht’s eyes as he went on scrutinizing Agnes. “Why isn’t she betrothed yet, eh? She is of noble blood, after all. I’ve made inquiries. The Erfensteins are an old family. A noble title like that would be good for us Gutknechts. So what’s the snag? Is she sick? Does she limp? Out with it, Erfenstein, before I lose patience with you.”
“The right man for me has not yet come along,” Agnes replied coolly. “And it remains to be seen whether your son is the right man.” She straightened her shoulders and looked challengingly at the merchant. “So it would be a good idea for me to meet him first. Or has he preferred the company of some other lady to mine today? One hears that he is not very choosy.”
For a few moments no one said anything. Then the merchant began to bleat with laughter. “Now I know what’s the matter with your daughter, Erfenstein!” he crowed. “A pert tongue, that’s her trouble. No wonder her suitors have taken to their heels.”
“It’s not like that,” the castellan muttered, casting his daughter a furious glance. “I’ll admit that Agnes has a mind of her own, but—”
“Yes, yes, wears men’s hose and goes hawking with a falcon, so folk say,” Jakob Gutknecht interrupted him. He grinned when he saw Erfenstein’s startled expression. “I’ve made inquiries of my own, of course, Sir Castellan. I don’t buy a pig in a poke. And before asking my son, I’d prefer to get an idea of her for myself.” Gutknecht raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure whether I like what I’ve heard. But a title is a title . . .” The merchant paused thoughtfully and then turned to Philipp von Erfenstein as if Agnes was not even in the room. “May I make a suggestion, Castellan?” he asked, although it sounded more like a command. “Let us discuss this on our own for a start. There is a good deal to talk about, particularly from the financial point of view. If we should agree there, I may want to take another look at your daughter. But until then, this is man’s business.”
He jerked his head toward the door. Understanding his gesture, Agnes made a small bow and took her leave.
“I’ll wait for you downstairs, all right?” she whispered to her father, but the castellan did not reply. He sat like a rock on the tiny stool, avoiding her eyes. Finally she turned away and hurried through the door into the open air. Running down the steps, she passed many startled patricians and was finally out in the lively, crowded street. Only here did she stop to take a deep breath.
How could she have made such a spectacle of herself? It had all been too much for her, and now maybe she had wrecked her father’s last chance of keeping Trifels Castle. He would never forgive her.
Her dress suddenly felt unseemly, almost indecent. Agnes blushed for the way she looked in it and buttoned up the bodice right to the top. On the spur of the moment, she decided to go into the market, to distract her mind. Her father would surely be some time yet. Judging by his face when he looked at her, it would be better to keep out of his way for a while. Instinctively, Agnes found her footsteps taking her over to the cathedral that she had admired so much as a small child. She stood in silence before the tall porch, looking up at the four towers that rose to the sky. The imperial family of the Salians had built the cathedral as a monument to themselves half a millennium ago. Since then it had been renovated again and again, bearing witness in stone to human capabilities.
There was also constant coming and going on the cathedral forecourt, and in the precincts of the bishop’s palace next door to it. Beggars leaned against the pillars of the entrance, holding out their hands; murmuring pilgrims passed with bowed heads. Agnes saw the great stone bowl, known as the cathedral font, which for hundreds of years had marked the border between the imperial city and the diocese of Speyer. Criminals who took refuge beyond the font were in sanctuary, under the bishop’s protection, and civic bailiffs could not seize them. Agnes wondered briefly what would happen if Mathis fled to Speyer. Would he be safe from the mayor of Annweiler here?
And then what? she asked herself. Would he spend the rest of his life behind the cathedral walls? Not much of a solution.
She put the idea out of her mind and entered the great basilica. Immediately the world was bathed in muted colors. Rays of light fell through the stained-glass windows like gigantic spears. The crowd that had looked so large milling around the forecourt was lost inside the huge building. The voices of worshippers sounded soft and echoed in the basilica. Peace such as she had not known for some time spread through Agnes; sorrow and despair left her as she knelt before the altar in one of the many side chapels and made the sign of the cross.
Dear God, let my father find the right husband for me. If I can’t have Mathis, then at least let him be a kind and modest man . . .
After praying silently for a while she went on to the apse, where a monument as tall as a man stood in front of the choir screen. It resembled a huge stone cube, surmounted by a kind of canopy, and with a gilded inscription on the front. From her earlier visit with her father, Agnes knew that it contained the tombs of no less than eight German rulers, together with several of their wives. The people therefore reverently called this monument the Imperial Vault. Two stone reliefs on the sides of the cube showed all the kings who had been laid to rest here long ago, including many Salians as well as Philipp of Swabia, Barbarossa’s son, and Rudolf von Habsburg. For a long time, a tomb had been kept ready for Barbarossa himself. After his death, his flesh had been boiled and removed from his bones to be buried in the distant city of Antioch, but to this day no one knew where his bones lay.
While Agnes admired the weathered stone reliefs, something odd suddenly happened. A strange shudder ran from the nape of her neck down her spine, and then back up again to her scalp. At the same time she thought she heard a voice calling to her quietly from somewhere distant. It was only just audible.
“Agnessss,” the voice seemed to breathe, again and again. “Agnessss, Agnessss, Agnessss . . .”
Agnes swung around, startled. She remembered the rustling leaves outside her bedchamber window at Trifels Castle, on the night when she had been plagued by the worst of her dreams by far. She had hardly had time yet to think properly about the dreadful images and sounds that it showed: the puddle of wine reflecting the face of a strange woman who nonetheless resembled her, and the conversation between men planning her death. With the faint voice, it all came back to her.
“Agnessss . . . Agnessss . . . Agnessss . . .”
What in heaven’s name is that?
She strained her ears to hear the voice. It was so low that she couldn’t be sure whether she might not be simply imagining it. She felt that the sound did not come from the main nave of the cathedral, but from below. A slight fit of dizziness overcame her. Without more thought, she went down the steps leading from the right-hand aisle down to the cathedral crypt. The dimly lit vaulted ceiling of this cross-shaped hall rested on a row of columns rising like stone trees into the darkness, where they were lost from view. Only when Agnes was down in the crypt did it occur to her that, if anyone had evil designs on her, she was in far more danger here than up above. In contrast to the nave and aisles, there was not a human soul in the crypt. Two torches at its entrance cast a little light on at least that part of it, but between the columns at the back all was as dark as a moonless night. She held her breath as she concentrated on her surroundings.
“Agnessss, Agnessss, Agnessss . . .” The whisper seemed to
come from somewhere else again. This time the voice was above her once more. Or was it on one side of her?
What in the world is going on?
Agnes closed her eyes for a moment and mopped her forehead. Did she have a fever? Had a journey of two days in wet weather exhausted her so much that she was imagining things? She could vaguely make out some altars at the far end of the crypt. Only now did she see a monk kneeling in front of a candle on the extreme left, with his head bent. Her heart was beating as fast as if she had run here all the way from the market. What was the matter with her?
“Agnessss, Agnessss, Agnessss . . .” whispered the voice.
Could the monk have been calling to her? She was about to address the kneeling figure, but suddenly held back.
Suppose it wasn’t a monk at all?
The kneeling man abruptly stood up and came toward her, walking fast. Agnes opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She suddenly felt like the sheer weight of stone and rock overhead were crushing her. The monk in front of her had been wearing the hood of his cowl well down over his face, but now he put it back, and his face shone as bright as daylight in the darkness of the crypt.
It was an old face, and very kindly.
“What’s the matter, child?” asked the monk, looking at her in surprise. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“It . . . it’s nothing,” Agnes gasped. By now she had recovered her voice. “I must be seeing ghosts.”