Chapter 7
November 1190 AD
A cold wind swept through the graveyard outside the castle walls. Two men shoveled dirt into a grave, while the Duke and Duchess, both dressed in black, watched in silence. When the grave was filled, the gravediggers bowed to the Duke and went off to find a place to warm themselves.
Rudolf kept his eyes fixed on the grave. There was no headstone yet, nothing to show that this was the grave of the woman he had loved for so long. All the other mourners had left quickly after the funeral had ended, but Rudolf had stayed, and Kazimiera had stayed with him.
Kazimiera's eyes strayed from the fresh grave to the headstone on the grave immediately to the left. Laura had been buried next to her daughter Marietta, who had died after falling from her horse a few days before her sixteenth birthday. The loss had been hard on Laura, and she had never fully recovered. Rudolf had been hit hard by his daughter's death also.
As darkness began to fall, Kazimiera finally spoke. “Shall we go now?”
“It isn't fair,” Rudolf said softly. He kept staring at the grave.
“I know, my husband,” Kazimiera answered. “To lose both of them in so short a time...”
“It's a punishment.” Rudolf clenched his fists. “I sinned, they were taken from me.” He started to shake. “What did Marietta ever do to deserve this? She was just a girl...”
“No, Rudolf, you are not being punished,” Kazimiera protested. “Marietta's death was an accident. Laura was ill, for months.”
Rudolf's face contorted. “I knew,” he said. “She tried to hide it from me, but I knew.”
“My husband, this is not some punishment from God for your sins. These things happen. Life is suffering and pain and injustice, and in the end we all wind up in graves whether we deserve it or not.”
Rudolf sighed. “You and your damned Polish fatalism,” he muttered.
“Rudolf, listen to me,” Kazimiera pleaded. “You have lost much, yes, but you have not lost everyone who loves you.”
Rudolf finally turned away from Laura's grave, and stared at Kazimiera. “Love,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Kazimiera nodded. “It's true,” she said. “I know, it surprised me too, when I first realized it. But yes, I do love you, Rudolf.”
Rudolf shook his head. “I don't deserve it,” he whispered.
“What difference does that make?” Kazimiera took his hand. “Rudolf, I know this is hard for you. Laura was my closest friend in Kyburg, you know. I will miss her too. But can you not at least take the comfort that I offer you?”
Rudolf looked back at Laura's grave one more time, and closed his eyes tightly for a moment. Then he turned back to Kazimiera and said, “You must be chilled to the bone. I shouldn't have kept you out here for so long.”
“Come inside, then, my husband,” she answered, and they headed for the castle gate.
Arnold sat alone in the castle chapel, staring at the golden crucifix behind the altar. Night had fallen outside, and the candles cast only a dim light.
Arnold heard someone come up softly behind him. “I didn't expect to find you here,” he heard Bishop Arnulf say. “Are you waiting for confession?”
“I am trying,” Arnold said, “to find some justice in all of this.”
“Justice?” The bishop sounded puzzled.
“In Laura's death,” Arnold explained. “In Marietta's. In Sofie's. In Rudolf's conduct, and in my own.”
“Ah,” Arnulf said. “Well, if you find any, let me know. I'd be interested in hearing it.”
“That's helpful,” Arnold said wryly.
The bishop sat down next to him on the oaken pew. “I wish I could explain it all to you, Arnold,” he said. “But the truth is, if God has some plan in all of this, it's beyond my understanding.”
Arnold raised an eyebrow. “You're a skeptic?”
“No, just old,” Arnulf said wearily. “I've been a priest for nearly fifty years. I've seen every sin in the book. I've buried the old and the young, the good and the bad, the mighty and the lowly, and at least one man who may have been a saint. And I've come to the conclusion that there is no justice in this world. Not that I can see.” He shook his head. “But then, we aren't promised justice in this life, are we?”
“I'm stepping down as Rudolf's spymaster,” Arnold told the older man. “I've had enough of it. I'm going to go back to Zollern, and spend what time I have left with my children and grandchildren. Rudolf can find a way to get along without me.”
“I wish I had the option,” Arnulf confessed. “But I have no family, and my duty lies here.”
“Saving Rudolf's soul? I don't envy you.”
The bishop smiled, and rose to go. “Rudolf's salvation is not up to me, God be thanked. But there is hope. God is merciful, after all.”
Arnold nodded. “Good night, then, Arnulf. I'll just stay here a while longer, and pray that I don't get what I deserve.”
“Good night,” the bishop answered. “And when you're ready to confess your sins, you know where to find me.”
Arnulf left the chapel, leaving Arnold alone. He kept his eyes fixed on the golden cross, studying the contorted figure of the suffering man nailed to it.
“Clemens Dominus et iustus et Deus noster misericors,” he whispered into the darkness, hoping it was true.
November 1190 AD
A cold wind swept through the graveyard outside the castle walls. Two men shoveled dirt into a grave, while the Duke and Duchess, both dressed in black, watched in silence. When the grave was filled, the gravediggers bowed to the Duke and went off to find a place to warm themselves.
Rudolf kept his eyes fixed on the grave. There was no headstone yet, nothing to show that this was the grave of the woman he had loved for so long. All the other mourners had left quickly after the funeral had ended, but Rudolf had stayed, and Kazimiera had stayed with him.
Kazimiera's eyes strayed from the fresh grave to the headstone on the grave immediately to the left. Laura had been buried next to her daughter Marietta, who had died after falling from her horse a few days before her sixteenth birthday. The loss had been hard on Laura, and she had never fully recovered. Rudolf had been hit hard by his daughter's death also.
As darkness began to fall, Kazimiera finally spoke. “Shall we go now?”
“It isn't fair,” Rudolf said softly. He kept staring at the grave.
“I know, my husband,” Kazimiera answered. “To lose both of them in so short a time...”
“It's a punishment.” Rudolf clenched his fists. “I sinned, they were taken from me.” He started to shake. “What did Marietta ever do to deserve this? She was just a girl...”
“No, Rudolf, you are not being punished,” Kazimiera protested. “Marietta's death was an accident. Laura was ill, for months.”
Rudolf's face contorted. “I knew,” he said. “She tried to hide it from me, but I knew.”
“My husband, this is not some punishment from God for your sins. These things happen. Life is suffering and pain and injustice, and in the end we all wind up in graves whether we deserve it or not.”
Rudolf sighed. “You and your damned Polish fatalism,” he muttered.
“Rudolf, listen to me,” Kazimiera pleaded. “You have lost much, yes, but you have not lost everyone who loves you.”
Rudolf finally turned away from Laura's grave, and stared at Kazimiera. “Love,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Kazimiera nodded. “It's true,” she said. “I know, it surprised me too, when I first realized it. But yes, I do love you, Rudolf.”
Rudolf shook his head. “I don't deserve it,” he whispered.
“What difference does that make?” Kazimiera took his hand. “Rudolf, I know this is hard for you. Laura was my closest friend in Kyburg, you know. I will miss her too. But can you not at least take the comfort that I offer you?”
Rudolf looked back at Laura's grave one more time, and closed his eyes tightly for a moment. Then he turned back to Kazimiera and said, “You must be chilled to the bone. I shouldn't have kept you out here for so long.”
“Come inside, then, my husband,” she answered, and they headed for the castle gate.
-----
Arnold sat alone in the castle chapel, staring at the golden crucifix behind the altar. Night had fallen outside, and the candles cast only a dim light.
Arnold heard someone come up softly behind him. “I didn't expect to find you here,” he heard Bishop Arnulf say. “Are you waiting for confession?”
“I am trying,” Arnold said, “to find some justice in all of this.”
“Justice?” The bishop sounded puzzled.
“In Laura's death,” Arnold explained. “In Marietta's. In Sofie's. In Rudolf's conduct, and in my own.”
“Ah,” Arnulf said. “Well, if you find any, let me know. I'd be interested in hearing it.”
“That's helpful,” Arnold said wryly.
The bishop sat down next to him on the oaken pew. “I wish I could explain it all to you, Arnold,” he said. “But the truth is, if God has some plan in all of this, it's beyond my understanding.”
Arnold raised an eyebrow. “You're a skeptic?”
“No, just old,” Arnulf said wearily. “I've been a priest for nearly fifty years. I've seen every sin in the book. I've buried the old and the young, the good and the bad, the mighty and the lowly, and at least one man who may have been a saint. And I've come to the conclusion that there is no justice in this world. Not that I can see.” He shook his head. “But then, we aren't promised justice in this life, are we?”
“I'm stepping down as Rudolf's spymaster,” Arnold told the older man. “I've had enough of it. I'm going to go back to Zollern, and spend what time I have left with my children and grandchildren. Rudolf can find a way to get along without me.”
“I wish I had the option,” Arnulf confessed. “But I have no family, and my duty lies here.”
“Saving Rudolf's soul? I don't envy you.”
The bishop smiled, and rose to go. “Rudolf's salvation is not up to me, God be thanked. But there is hope. God is merciful, after all.”
Arnold nodded. “Good night, then, Arnulf. I'll just stay here a while longer, and pray that I don't get what I deserve.”
“Good night,” the bishop answered. “And when you're ready to confess your sins, you know where to find me.”
Arnulf left the chapel, leaving Arnold alone. He kept his eyes fixed on the golden cross, studying the contorted figure of the suffering man nailed to it.
“Clemens Dominus et iustus et Deus noster misericors,” he whispered into the darkness, hoping it was true.
End of Book 1
