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“Oh, yes. More stringent than the royal courts, in fact. For example, they prepared a summary of the case where they changed all the names to Latin pseudonyms and presented it to a group of men chosen for their reputation in the community — the boni viri, the good men — who could then review it without prejudice. We know of cases where the accused deliberately committed blasphemy to get transferred out of the royal court to the inquisitorial court.”
“They used torture, though, didn’t they?”
“For questioning, never for punishment. But everybody used torture back then. The tribunals allowed it only long after the imperial courts had introduced it. The inquisitors’ own manual called it ‘deceptive and ineffectual,’ and allowed it only as the last resort, or when guilt was already clear from other evidence. Back then, a confession was required. They couldn’t convict on other testimony. Torture was allowed only once, and could not cause loss of limb or endanger life, and anything said must be sustained by oath given afterward.”
Tom wouldn’t buy it. “But a persistent prosecutor could find loopholes in that.”
“Or a corrupt one. Certainly. It was more like a modern grand jury than a trial.”
“Are you sure? I always thought…”
“It was my dissertation in narrative history.”
“Oh. That’s why you learned Latin, then?” In truth, Tom was often surprised by the granular details of history. Working as he did with the big picture, the particulars often vanished into faceless stereotypes.
He studied the printout again. How much more information was hidden the same way, deep in a Black Forest of words seven centuries thick. “I’d guess they were Chinese. Dietrich’s guests, I mean. The comments about skin color and eye shape. Oriental, at any rate.”
“There was such travel in the fourteenth century,” Judy admitted. “Marco Polo and his father and uncle. And William Rubrick, who was a friend of Roger Bacon.”
“What about travelers in the other direction? Did anyone from China head west?”
Judy wasn’t sure, but the Pigeon Hole was a Hot Spot, so she pulled out her wireless and poked an inquiry. After a few minutes she nodded. “We know about two Chinese Nestorians who came west. Hunh! At the same time the Polos were going east. They may have passed each other on the way. Hey, one of them was named Marco, too. That’s weird. Marco and Sauma. When they reached Iraq, Marco was elected Catholicos, the Nestorian Pope, and he sent Sauma on embassies to the Roman Pope and the English and French Kings.
“So Dietrich may have sheltered a similar party,” Tom said, tugging his lower lip, “one that met with disaster. Attacked by robber barons, maybe. Some were wounded, he says.”
“Perhaps,” Judy agreed, “but…”
“But what?”
“Chinese aren’t that different. And they can’t fly. So why call them flying demons?”
“If their arrival coincided with an outbreak of ergot hallucinations, the two events may have been co
Judy pursed her lips. “If so, Dietrich seems to have converted at least one hallucination to Catholicism. Joha
“I thnk so. And this was Dietrich’s response. Remember, the moriuntur document?”
“Yes. I think it must have been part of a journal kept by Pastor Dietrich.”
“Bestimmt. In a small village like Oberhochwald, the priest was probably the only literate man. Here. These came from Anton this morning in an e-mail.” Tom handed her printouts of some pdf files I had sent him. “He dug around over in Freiburg for me.”
Judy read through them avidly. Sure, she was only a research assistant, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t care — about the research, among other things. When she finished, she set them down on the table and frowned a little. Then she paged back and re-read some passages.
“Did you catch that part about their names?” Tom asked. “’He is called Joha
Judy nodded absently. “He must have studied Hebrew if he was the doctor seclusus that Ockham mentions. And he would likely have heard Arabic at some time. But—”
“Did you read the part where Joha
Judy made up her mind about something. It was only an intuition and she was afraid to give it voice, because she didn’t really know what that voice would say. She took the pages from him, leafed through them, and pointed with her finger. “What do you make of this…?” The abruptness in her voice earned her a curious look before Tom read the indicated passage.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he said when he had finished. “Dietrich found Hans alone one night looking at the stars. They talked a while and Hans asked how he would ever find his way home again. A homesick traveler, ne c’est pas?”
“No, Tom. He wrote that Hans pointed to the stars and asked how he would find his way home again.”
“So? People in those days used the stars as guides in traveling.”
She looked away; pushed her cheese steak aside. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a feeling. Something we’ve read. It means something different… Not what we think it means.”
He didn’t answer her. He took a last bite from his hoagie and put it down unfinished. Despite the cornucopia of material they had unearthed, they were still no closer to finding the reason for Oberhochwald’s abandonment. He chewed on that for a while instead.
Shun them as we shun the unholy soil of Teufelheim. In its last year of existence, Oberhochwald was an ordinary village. Yet, a mere generation later it was being called the Devil’s Home.
He didn’t realize it, but he was dabbling in the occult — the essence of the matter was still hidden — and he would need a bit of magic to uncover it.
XVII. April/May, 1349
Rogation Sunday
By spring, it seemed as if the Krenken had always been there. They had settled into the rivalries, rhythms, friendships, and jealousies that marked village and manor, and had begun to participate in ceremonies and revelries. Perhaps, being deprived of the company of their own folk, their instinctus drove them to seek such comfort. When Franzl Long-nose was wounded by outlaw knights encamped in a cave below the Feldberg, two Krenken used their flying harnesses to scout for the outlaws, though to no avail.
“Men of von Falkenstein’s,” Max told Dietrich later, “who took to the woods when the Rock fell. I had thought them fled toward Breitnau.”
Shepherd’s long awaited coup fell on Low Sunday. Many Krenken, through too-literal a translation, had expected the “Herr-from-the-sky” to arrive and rescue them, and were afterward much disheartened. Shepherd (who had not so misconstrued) had carefully positioned her people, awaiting just this disappointment. She had insinuated herself into Herr Manfred’s company, always between Gschert’s lips and Manfred’s ear. She intended that Manfred should grow accustomed to hearing her advice in addition to — and eventually, in stead of — Gschert’s. Manfred, no stranger to intrigues among his vassals, was keenly aware of her maneuvers. “She thinks to depose him,” he told Dietrich one evening as he and Dietrich and Max strolled the castle walls. “As if my oath to protect him would mean nothing.”