chap 1: Der Kaiser ist Tod, lang lebe der Kaiser!
Ancona, Italy. 11 July 1098.
Peacefully cloaked by a moonless night, the city of Ancona laid silently under the stars. All was quiet: occasionally, on the walls of the city one could spot men with torches going the rounds. As they passed the gate, they would illuminate the two banners flying from it: the bent arm holding a palm branch which was the city’s coat of arms, and the three black lions on a yellow background symbolizing the Duchy of Swabia and the Rheinfelden party. Surrounding the city were many tents of various sizes. These were likewise patrolled by soldiers, although the banners they illuminated were of a black double-headed eagle on a yellow background.
Friedrich, ever the poet, paused briefly to consider the fragile balance, the coexistance between two rival sides in civil war – Berthold von Rheinfelden, duke of Swabia and Mecklemburg and his son-in-law Wilhelm von Urslingen, count of Ancona, Urbino and Ravenna against emperor Heinrich IV, Berthold’s uncle, who had named as successor his grandson, Hildeprand of Salerno, rather than his nephew Berthold. Berthold had been insulted that he, a noble German of highly noble blood, already experienced in rulership, had been passed over for a landless scion of the failed Lombard people. Thus he had gone to war, with his son-in-law one of his leading supporters, and many other German lords joining in after Heinrich’s excommunication. Now the Emperor, world-weary and desperate to end it all, was laying siege to the stronghold of one of Berthold’s best generals, who’d already been forced to retreat several times by the sheer resources of the Empire.
However, the young knight did not care at the moment. His thoughts were focused on the dark Italian beauty waiting for him at the nearby copse of trees, a far cry from the wife that awaited him at his father’s castle in Franconia. As he kissed the face of his lover, he put into it all the passion that he would never pour onto the face of his lawful wife, which rather resembled that of some of his father’s hunting dogs. As his hands ran along her thighs he noticed they were soft and slender, a great difference from his wife’s which could be used to crush metal. As their two bodies melted into one, Friedrich was unaware of anything but her warm body and passionate cries in the dark. That was until he heard far louder - and less blissful - cries coming from the camp, soon followed by the stench of smoke.
“Zum teufel!” He shouted as he stood up, turning around. In the camp, a couple hundred metres away, horsemen were running around torching tents, cutting into soldiers, and wreaking all matter of havoc upon the Empire’s braves.
“Run!” Friedrich called before grabbing his beloved’s hand and fleeing further into the wooded area, away from the stench and the sight of death.
***
“And you are certain they are both dead?” , the young count asked, running a finger along the metal rings that made up his armor as he gazed impassively at the ashes of what had once been an opulent pavillion.
“Yes, my lord. The...late...Emperor was a heavy sleeper, and the Usurper was serving him as a page. Their bodies have not been found, they must be among the ash.” , the knight replied with confidence. He had, after all, been the one who had thrown a torch onto that tent.
“Very good. Dispatch a messenger to my father-in-law... Tell him that we have triumphed, and nothing stands against his coronation now.”
Wilhelm von Urslingen, Count of Ancona, Urbino and Ravenna
Berthold I, Holy Roman Emperor
Ancona, Italy. 11 July 1098.
Peacefully cloaked by a moonless night, the city of Ancona laid silently under the stars. All was quiet: occasionally, on the walls of the city one could spot men with torches going the rounds. As they passed the gate, they would illuminate the two banners flying from it: the bent arm holding a palm branch which was the city’s coat of arms, and the three black lions on a yellow background symbolizing the Duchy of Swabia and the Rheinfelden party. Surrounding the city were many tents of various sizes. These were likewise patrolled by soldiers, although the banners they illuminated were of a black double-headed eagle on a yellow background.
Friedrich, ever the poet, paused briefly to consider the fragile balance, the coexistance between two rival sides in civil war – Berthold von Rheinfelden, duke of Swabia and Mecklemburg and his son-in-law Wilhelm von Urslingen, count of Ancona, Urbino and Ravenna against emperor Heinrich IV, Berthold’s uncle, who had named as successor his grandson, Hildeprand of Salerno, rather than his nephew Berthold. Berthold had been insulted that he, a noble German of highly noble blood, already experienced in rulership, had been passed over for a landless scion of the failed Lombard people. Thus he had gone to war, with his son-in-law one of his leading supporters, and many other German lords joining in after Heinrich’s excommunication. Now the Emperor, world-weary and desperate to end it all, was laying siege to the stronghold of one of Berthold’s best generals, who’d already been forced to retreat several times by the sheer resources of the Empire.
However, the young knight did not care at the moment. His thoughts were focused on the dark Italian beauty waiting for him at the nearby copse of trees, a far cry from the wife that awaited him at his father’s castle in Franconia. As he kissed the face of his lover, he put into it all the passion that he would never pour onto the face of his lawful wife, which rather resembled that of some of his father’s hunting dogs. As his hands ran along her thighs he noticed they were soft and slender, a great difference from his wife’s which could be used to crush metal. As their two bodies melted into one, Friedrich was unaware of anything but her warm body and passionate cries in the dark. That was until he heard far louder - and less blissful - cries coming from the camp, soon followed by the stench of smoke.
“Zum teufel!” He shouted as he stood up, turning around. In the camp, a couple hundred metres away, horsemen were running around torching tents, cutting into soldiers, and wreaking all matter of havoc upon the Empire’s braves.
“Run!” Friedrich called before grabbing his beloved’s hand and fleeing further into the wooded area, away from the stench and the sight of death.
***
“And you are certain they are both dead?” , the young count asked, running a finger along the metal rings that made up his armor as he gazed impassively at the ashes of what had once been an opulent pavillion.
“Yes, my lord. The...late...Emperor was a heavy sleeper, and the Usurper was serving him as a page. Their bodies have not been found, they must be among the ash.” , the knight replied with confidence. He had, after all, been the one who had thrown a torch onto that tent.
“Very good. Dispatch a messenger to my father-in-law... Tell him that we have triumphed, and nothing stands against his coronation now.”
Wilhelm von Urslingen, Count of Ancona, Urbino and Ravenna
Berthold I, Holy Roman Emperor
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