kindness. And the devil shows himself in mean and shabby dealings. All that shaking this morning and the booming wind and burst of light—all that was too dramatic. Only Nature is so theatrical.”
“But what caused it?”
“The causes are occult, but they are surely material.”
“How can you be so—” Max froze and stepped onto the wooden footbridge that spanned the stream below the mill, peering toward the woods.
“What is it?” asked Dietrich.
The sergeant tossed his head. “That flock of acorn-jays took sudden flight from the copse on the edge of the woods. Something’s moving about in there.”
Dietrich shaded his eyes and looked where the Swiss had pointed. Smoke hung lazily in the air, like streamers of teased wool. The trees at the edge of the wood cast dark shadows that the climbing sun failed to dispel. Within the motley of black and white, Dietrich spied movement, though at thisdistance, he could make out no details. Light winked, as one sometimes sees when the sun glints off metal.
Dietrich shaded his eyes. “Is that armor?”
Max scowled. “In the Herr’s woods? That would be bold-faced, even for von Falkenstein.”
“Would it? Falkenstein’s ancestor sold his soul to the Devil to escape a Saracen prison. He has despoiled nuns and holy pilgrims. He badly wants a reining-in.”
“When the Markgraf grows irritated enough,” Max agreed. “But the gorge is too hard a passage. Why would Philip send his henchmen up here? Not for profit, surely.”
“Might von Scharfenstein?” He gestured vaguely toward the southeast, where another robber baron had his nest.
“Burg Scharfenstein’s taken. Hadn’t you heard? Its lord seized a Basler merchant for ransom, and that proved his undoing. The man’s nephew disguised himself as a notorious freelance they’d heard tale of and went to them with word of easy spoils a little ways down the Wiesen valley. Well, greed dulls people’s wits, so they followed him—and rode into an ambush laid by the Basler militia.”
“There’s a lesson there.”
Max grinned like a wolf. “‘Do not vex the Swiss.’”
Dietrich studied the woods once more. “If not robber knights, then only landless men, forced to poach in the forest.”
“Maybe,” Max allowed. “But that’s the Herr’s lands.”
“What then? Will you go in and chase them off?”
The Swiss shrugged. “Or Everard will hire them for the grain harvest. Why hunt trouble? The Herr will be back in a few days. He’s had his fill of France, or so the messenger said. I’ll ask his will.” He stared a while longer at the woods. “There was a strange glow there, before dawn. Then the smoke. I suppose you’ll tell me that was ‘Nature,’ too.” He turned and left, touching his cap as he passed Hildegarde Müller.
Dietrich saw no more movement among the trees. Perhaps he had seen nothing earlier, only the swaying of saplings within the forest.
III
AUGUST , 1348
At Compline, The Vigil of St. Laurence
“D ISPÉRSIT,” SAID Dietrich. “Dédit paupéribus; justítia éjus mánet in saéculum saéculi: córnu éjus exaltábitur in Glória.”
Joachim answered him. “Beátus vir, qui tímet Dóminum; in mandátes éjus cúpit nímis.”
“Glória pátri et Fílio et Spirítui Sáncti.”
“Amen.” That they said in unison, but with no echo from the church save that of Theresia Gresch, who knelt solitary on the flagstones of the nave in the flickering candlelight. But Theresia was a fixture, like the statues that lurked in the niches in the wall.
There were only two sorts of women so perfervid in their devotions: madwomen and saints, nor were the two species entirely distinct. One must be a little mad to be a saint, at least as the world measured madness.
Theresia had the soft, round face of a maiden, though Dietrich knew her for twenty. She had never to Dietrich’s certain knowledge gone with a man, and indeed, still spoke with simplicity and innocence. At times, Dietrich knew
“But what caused it?”
“The causes are occult, but they are surely material.”
“How can you be so—” Max froze and stepped onto the wooden footbridge that spanned the stream below the mill, peering toward the woods.
“What is it?” asked Dietrich.
The sergeant tossed his head. “That flock of acorn-jays took sudden flight from the copse on the edge of the woods. Something’s moving about in there.”
Dietrich shaded his eyes and looked where the Swiss had pointed. Smoke hung lazily in the air, like streamers of teased wool. The trees at the edge of the wood cast dark shadows that the climbing sun failed to dispel. Within the motley of black and white, Dietrich spied movement, though at thisdistance, he could make out no details. Light winked, as one sometimes sees when the sun glints off metal.
Dietrich shaded his eyes. “Is that armor?”
Max scowled. “In the Herr’s woods? That would be bold-faced, even for von Falkenstein.”
“Would it? Falkenstein’s ancestor sold his soul to the Devil to escape a Saracen prison. He has despoiled nuns and holy pilgrims. He badly wants a reining-in.”
“When the Markgraf grows irritated enough,” Max agreed. “But the gorge is too hard a passage. Why would Philip send his henchmen up here? Not for profit, surely.”
“Might von Scharfenstein?” He gestured vaguely toward the southeast, where another robber baron had his nest.
“Burg Scharfenstein’s taken. Hadn’t you heard? Its lord seized a Basler merchant for ransom, and that proved his undoing. The man’s nephew disguised himself as a notorious freelance they’d heard tale of and went to them with word of easy spoils a little ways down the Wiesen valley. Well, greed dulls people’s wits, so they followed him—and rode into an ambush laid by the Basler militia.”
“There’s a lesson there.”
Max grinned like a wolf. “‘Do not vex the Swiss.’”
Dietrich studied the woods once more. “If not robber knights, then only landless men, forced to poach in the forest.”
“Maybe,” Max allowed. “But that’s the Herr’s lands.”
“What then? Will you go in and chase them off?”
The Swiss shrugged. “Or Everard will hire them for the grain harvest. Why hunt trouble? The Herr will be back in a few days. He’s had his fill of France, or so the messenger said. I’ll ask his will.” He stared a while longer at the woods. “There was a strange glow there, before dawn. Then the smoke. I suppose you’ll tell me that was ‘Nature,’ too.” He turned and left, touching his cap as he passed Hildegarde Müller.
Dietrich saw no more movement among the trees. Perhaps he had seen nothing earlier, only the swaying of saplings within the forest.
III
AUGUST , 1348
At Compline, The Vigil of St. Laurence
“D ISPÉRSIT,” SAID Dietrich. “Dédit paupéribus; justítia éjus mánet in saéculum saéculi: córnu éjus exaltábitur in Glória.”
Joachim answered him. “Beátus vir, qui tímet Dóminum; in mandátes éjus cúpit nímis.”
“Glória pátri et Fílio et Spirítui Sáncti.”
“Amen.” That they said in unison, but with no echo from the church save that of Theresia Gresch, who knelt solitary on the flagstones of the nave in the flickering candlelight. But Theresia was a fixture, like the statues that lurked in the niches in the wall.
There were only two sorts of women so perfervid in their devotions: madwomen and saints, nor were the two species entirely distinct. One must be a little mad to be a saint, at least as the world measured madness.
Theresia had the soft, round face of a maiden, though Dietrich knew her for twenty. She had never to Dietrich’s certain knowledge gone with a man, and indeed, still spoke with simplicity and innocence. At times, Dietrich knew
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