The Play

[Innocentius]

Act I, Part I

A good-looking young man wearing fancy clothes walked down the street. He was in his early twenties, his brown hair was well cut, the shape of his face was elegant and he had a very pleasant, although perhaps not remarkable, appearance. His bright, young eyes were blue and his teeth white and healthy. The only remark one could make on his appearance was that he had no beard - probably because he was too young to grow one.

Moreover, this young man was well educated, spoke Latin fluently and knew Aristotle by heart. He was wealthy and had a good sense of humour, and generally could be ascribed to all those attributes that made a man desirable to women. This fine young man suffered from just one great problem however, and one that he was not even aware of: he was a complete idiot.

For let us be honest: Yes, he was an idiot. Years of studies had earned him hardly any knowledge at all; although he could recite both Plato and Socrates straight from the back of his mind, and although he understood Latin full well, his mind and his interests were elsewhere, and he never fully appreciated and understood what privileges had been given to him. He never understood of what the ancient Greeks spoke and wrote, but rather spent his thoughts on what new clothes to purchase or have the tailor make for him, and what young ladies to flirt with. The philosophical and theological questions raised centuries ago and still debated by scholars interested him little, instead he bothered to find the finest wine and socialize with the finest people. "He is young", some would say, "let him have his fun", but if young age is an acceptable excuse for such a waste of a bright mind is matter of debate... Thankfully for him however, this young man never realized just how naive and foolish he was and thus continued to live in blissful unknowingness and ignorance. In all aspects however, he was a perfect candidate, a prime example! He fit perfectly for what I had in mind.

But allow me to make a brief pause. "Who are you?" you might ask. Well, I am nobody. I am everyone and nobody really... I have nothing to do with this - there is no blood on my hands and my part in this is a minor one. It would be foolish to fully reveal my identity to you, as you, in all your curiosity - or rather foolishness - would probably try to find me, seek me out and ask me the same old questions. No, I had best not speak of my identity. Besides, a little mystery only appeal to the human senses I guess. Enough! Enough about me, now let us continue...

I had everything set up perfectly, and my little joke was soon to be told. The play was perfectly written, and with this foolish young man walking right into my world without warning, the lead role was cast. All the properties had been bought and furnished, all the extras paid (and well paid, might I add) and the stage was soon to be lit. Everything was set. Begin!

Stuttgart, Swabia, The Holy Roman Empire, Autumn of 1498

A mixed group of jesters, acrobats and musicians were entertaining a steadily growing crowd at a small square as the young man, whose name was Frederick, passed by. He was, as he always was this time of the day, on his way home. What he had done away from home none really knew, and he did not bother to tell just anyone about his more private affairs. Only when he had been away with his father on an errand doing business did he speak of what he had done, since he took great pride in his father's wealth and good sense for money. His father was a rich and important burgher and merchant in Stuttgart, and few were there who did not utter the name Albrecht von Dönhoff with the uttermost respect. As his son, Frederick von Dönhoff of course enjoyed all the privileges is father had, and hoped to one day take over his father's business and become as successful as he.

Lavishly dressed as he was, and with his family's coat of arms embroidered on his clothes, he briefly diverted some of the attention from the group of performers, and he smiled, filled with satisfaction as a few members of the crowd even bowed before him. One jester, dressed in yellow and green and with lively eyes that interestingly enough were almost as yellow as his clothes, managed to both frown and smirk at the same time as he noticed how the young nobleman of the bourgeoisie attracted more attention than his fellow artists. He did nothing however, and Frederick had soon left the little square, ignoring the handful of children who followed him, asking for money.

Frederick made a right turn and within minutes he was outside the palace-like building that was his father's house. He entered. It was getting late and the maids and servants would soon have the supper ready, which was good since Frederick was starving after a day of hard labour. The servants were nowhere to be seen - they were probably in the kitchen - and his mother and father appeared not to be home. His father was surely still out doing business or visiting some associate of his, but where his mother was he could not tell. His elder sister and his younger brothers and sisters were at home, though. The younger ones were playing and his elder sister was reading in the great hall. Frederick did not bother to say good day to any of them - he was too tired - and instead went directly to his chamber, where he undressed, said a prayer and then redressed in new, more humble and comfortable, clothes. He sat down on his bed for a while, but then decided to lay down when none called for him to come and eat. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a brief second as he laid down on the big, comfortable, bed. He immediately fell asleep.

***

The sun was setting over Stuttgart, its red and orange light seemingly putting the white houses of the city on fire. The filthy streets with their cracked paving were still busy, and everywhere there was movement. The group of performers whom the young Frederick had passed earlier that day were on their way to the inn were they slept, hoping to get themselves a few pints of beer and perhaps a little to eat as well.

They were an odd bunch and spoke a foreign language among themselves. They attracted quite a few odd looks as they walked down the streets in their colourful clothes, carrying their odd instruments, laughing and constantly talking to each other in their strange language. What language it was none could tell; some suggested Italian, others English and other still Turkish. The matter was further complicated by the fact that it was impossible to tell from where this little fellowship of artists came as some were blonde and light-complexioned, others had black hair and looked like Italians, while a few had fiery red hair and freckles. Others still were dark-skinned, some were apparently Africans, and one of them, the only lady in the company, had an unhealthy green tone to her skin - yet she seemed to be the happiest of them all and did not appear to be sick at all. Most people dismissed this confusing assembly with a irritated: "Gypsies" and tried to keep out of their way.

Their unofficial leader, the yellow-eyed man with long, red hair and his face covered in freckles suddenly became silent, left and stayed out of the discussion - whatever the discussion was now about - and diverted his attention to something occurring further down the street. His face, which formed a near perfect square, was cloven in two as his distinctive smirk spread across it like a ravine forming in an earthquake. This time, he did not frown.

What had caught his attention was a group of armoured horsemen coming up the street. There were about twenty of them and in the front rode a young, vigorous, man. His stature was tall, and he offered an impressive figure atop his destrier. He was very young, probably no older than twenty, and his long black hair was well-combed and accompanied by a short black beard despite his age. His black armour was well polished and a great sword in a simple scabbard hung from his belt. His sharp, brown eyes gleamed with eagerness as he saw the city, so full of life and townsfolk - had one looked deep into his eyes, one would have seen the untameable lust and greed that his young soul held in store, fuelled by an extraordinary personality which few could match. Unable to stop himself, the young man spurred his horse and rode ahead of the company of reiters.

"Götz!" one of the other knights yelled. "Get back here!"

But the young man did not listen or he ignored the command. Instead he drew his long sword as a provocative sign, and laughed triumphantly. People shrieked in shock and horror and stepped out of the way; nobody wanted to be in the man's way. And a weapon drawn right in the middle of the street, what a scandal! The bourgeoisie would have something to chat about for weeks!

The young man made his horse circle around in the middle of the now empty street. With his sword raised towards the darkening skies, he silently saluted the town.

"There will be plenty to do here, before we finally get to see some action, old Albrecht" the young man shouted to the other reiter. "Surely, this will be twice as exciting as Lord Frederick promised! I will see you soon!" and then he again spurred his horse and galloped down the street, with terrified burghers throwing themselves out of the way.

Thus, Götz von Berlichingen entered Stuttgart in the late autumn of 1498. The yellow-eyed jester grinned.

______________________________________________________

Beginning a new story without finishing my ongoing one. I actually don't know if I'll continue on The life of a soldier... we'll see. I intend to stick with the characters on this one, to open up for a closer narrative and thus to more elaborate descriptions and intrigues. As always, please let me know what you think.

This story does feature historical characters in lead roles, yes, but most are fictional, and all events that take place in this story are fictional.

[Innocentius]

Act I, Part II

Albrecht von Dönhoff was irritated. This meeting had taken longer than he had expected and now he would be late for supper. Besides, he had been feeling ill all day, and his back was killing him. Even as he sat down in his chair it pained and ached.

Albrecht, the highly respectable merchant of Stuttgart, was a man in his fifties although he looked older. He had a somewhat bent stature and was growing fat. He wore no beard and suffered from the worst disease of them all: baldness. The little grey hair he still had left by the sides of his head was long and hung like twisted and disorganized vines from beneath his elaborate hat - at his age he no longer saw the need to comb it. His clear, blue eyes however revealed that although his body had long since seen its best years, his mind was as lively and active as ever. It was his cunningness and good sense of money that had made him the richest man among the bourgeoisie, and as long as he had his brain and mind in good shape, no physical disabilities would stand in his way.

At last, the long awaited guest arrived. Albrecht and the other men seated in the big, quiet hall stood up - which caused Albrecht an excruciating pain in his back - to salute their guest and formalities were exchanged before they could finally get on with their business. The guest, a young man from Italy dressed in fine clothes of the latest fashion, currently visiting Stuttgart on behalf of his superiors, turned to Albrecht first and proudly announced to him that the Conte di Guisa had graciously accepted his offer.

"Good" Albrecht responded in Italian. "Did he say anything else?"

The Italian’s pride over his and his master’s importance now disappeared and instead he looked uncomfortable and nervously scratched his head.

"Yes, mein Herr" he stuttered and looked down into the floor, "he kindly asked for an additional ten percent..."

At first, it was as if Albrecht had not heard what the Italian said, and for a moment he thought he heard someone whispering something into his left ear, even though there was none near him. He then realised what the Italian man had said, and for some reason he lost his temper completely. If it was because of this outrageous demand by the Conte or because of his hunger or bad back - or a combination of them all - he could not tell. What he could tell was that he was now furious.

"Ten percent?!" he roared and only just managed to refrain from spitting on the floor or in the face of the Italian. His face was all red. "That would make it almost five thousand Gulden! What an outrageous demand! You should be lashed for even uttering such insulting requests, young man!" He took a brief pause to catch his breath but soon continued his rant. The others in the hall had stepped back; although Albrecht had a pretty bad temper, he rarely got this upset, but when he was truly upset he was impossible to reason with and it was best to leave him alone.

"Ten percent!" Albrecht repeated with a hint of mockery in his voice. "A thief! A thief and a scammer, that is what he is, this little Conte! A thief, a bloody..." he coughed but as he was to resume his little speech, he found himself unable to form words, let alone produce any sounds as he was out of breath. He gasped for air, but this only caused him to cough again. His left arm was aching, and he grabbed it with his right hand in a vain attempt to stop the pain. He fell to his knees.

"A doctor! Send for a doctor!" shouted Jan Kokenhusen, but by the time the confused old monk Henri arrived, Albrecht was already dead.

Oh, what an interesting creation is not mankind! Already minutes after the poor and most unfortunate - believe me; none regret his passing more than I - merchant had died the news of his death was spreading. Who first began to spread the word is uncertain, perhaps it was the blonde little errand boy who had fetched the doctor, or it perhaps one of the maids or servants who witnessed the tragedy, or perhaps it was old Jan Kokenhusen himself. Who did is of little importance however, more important is what effect these news had.

To most people the death of a man, even the death of such a prominent figure as Albrecht von Dönhoff, stirred few emotions but well reactions. "Oh, how horrible!" people exclaimed, adding "He was such a fine man" even though they had never met him or spoke to him in person. Most would say a heartless prayer for his soul before they went to bed that night, but in their hearts they were delighted as they now had a subject do debate, discuss and chat about for weeks. Those who were the most pure in heart probably searched their souls and felt ashamed over their lack of true empathy, and begged the Lord for forgiveness. Nonetheless, the word spread across the city more rapidly than a fire, and within hours everyone had heard. Pah! Gossip is indeed one of mankind's greatest talents - and burdens.

To the von Dönhoff family, who received the news from a panting old lady who had run across town as fast as she could solely to deliver the news only half an hour after the death of the old merchant, this tragic event would mean great change - and to young Frederick in particular. You see, Frederick had an older brother. Perhaps I should have told you that, but what for? Why spoil everything right away? Anyway, this older brother, who in ways had always been Frederick's rival in just about everything, was currently away in Vienna to study. He would have been the legitimate heir to their father's business, but while he was away Frederick had begun the slow work of persuading his father to allow him to precede his brother in the line of succession, hoping that he would one day take over their father’s business. He had made good progress and had managed to almost turn his father against hid oldest son and had did everything to please and impress his father. Yet no formal contract had been made, and his father had never had the chance to make these plans official. Thus, when Frederick was awoken from his sleep by his crying mother, who had just returned home to hear the news, he realised that this was a complete catastrophe to him. Not only had he lost the father of whom he was so proud and who he admired; he had also lost his chance of inheriting his business and he would now be set aside as the third child and second son of the late Albrecht von Dönhoff.

I will spare you the dull and superfluous description of how Frederick and his mother cried in each others arms for nearly half an hour after which the young man brushed his tears away and suddenly left the house without an explanation. He did not bother to change into his better clothes but merely paused to get his little velvet purse and then rushed off in a hurry. Where he then went must remain a secret for his own sake, but I guess there is nothing shameful about what he did next: he went to an inn were he immediately began drinking.

He sat by a small table in the corner of the tavern. Normally, Frederick did not drink beer, but for this time he made an exception. He doubted that the rather shabby inn would be able to provide him with good wine anyway. Although still lavishly dressed, his simpler clothes attracted far less attention than the ones he had worn earlier during the day, those with his coat-of-arms embroidered on them, and none stepped up to him to give him their condolences. None recognized him, either it was because of the clothes or because that nobody expected to see him there of all places – or simply because everyone in the dusky tavern were too drunk to recognize anyone. The night was still young, but already men were being carried or dragged out, either because they had fallen asleep and were taken home by their friends, or because they were too violent and loud and were forced to leave by the innkeeper, a fat and jolly-looking man.

Frederick turned away from the outside world and concentrated on drinking. He buried his face deep into his pint as he sat hunched over the table, where he sat alone. Pint after pint passed through his throat and he could soon feel the blissful drunkenness come over him. He had completely forgotten about his previous appetite, and instead drowned all feelings and emotions with more beer. By the time he had lost count on how many pints he had had, he felt confident enough to take a look at the tavern.

The place was crowded with shadowy figures who all drank, laughed, sang and played games. Most were, of course, men, but there were quite a few women in daring dresses who seemed to patrol the little hall looking for company. Some had already found company and were being spoiled by the men who ordered the finest dishes and wines the house could provide for them, desperately seeking their attention and favour. The room was low in roof and unlike most taverns lacked an upper floor with a balcony, but there was a low stage in the opposite corner where a group of performers entertained the crowd, or at least parts of it. Frederick did not recognize them, but it was the same jesters whom he had passed earlier during the day. They were performing some form of foreign dance which looked rather complicated, not to say dangerous, even in the dark. To his horror, it seemed to Frederick as if one jester suddenly stopped dancing as Frederick’s eyes came upon him and returned his gaze. Frederick quickly retreated back to his pint, realised that it was empty and ordered a new one from a bypassing waiter.

Hours passed and Frederick drank. He felt comfortable since he felt nothing. He had no doubts, no problems, no fears. Everything was perfect. He could no longer recall having ever had a father and he had no idea why he was where he was – and he wanted it to stay that way forever. Sadly, no longer aware of what he did he threw up on the table, after which two waiters grabbed him by his arms and threw him out on the street. His fine clothes mattered little to them: a drunk was a drunk.

As he helplessly landed on the hard and cold paving in the dark night he sobered up a little. He was now clear enough in the head to realise that he must find somewhere to sleep, but little else occupied his mind. He could not go home, not looking like this. He had plenty of friends who would take him into their house over the night, but he could not bear even the thought of humiliating himself in such a way, and thus he ruled that option out. Clueless as to what to do he started staggering down the street without knowing where he was going. He fell over a few times at first, but soon found his balance. The night was cold. He was tired. At last he felt he could walk no more and that he had to sleep. He noticed a few empty sacks laying outside a bakery. He distractedly took them and made a right turn into a side-alley where he immediately collapsed on the filthy ground. He somehow managed to put one bag between himself and the street and the other two he had taken atop him. Within seconds he was asleep.

***

As Frederick von Dönhoff woke up the next morning, he was a new man. Gone was the elegant young man from the day before and instead there was a ragged, haunted and tortured young man. Even though he had had no troubles in his life up to this point, last night had managed to change this young, promising man completely. People who went pass him as he lay curled up in his sacks in the alley took him for nothing but a simple beggar; one kind old lady, who was not even very rich, threw him a silver coin. The metallic sound of the coin hitting the hard stone paving woke Frederick up. He sat up and remained sitting, staring blankly into the wall of the house on the other side of the alley.

He looked and felt miserable where he sat. Exactly what had happened last night he could not tell, and everything from the point when he entered the tavern was misty or entirely black, and he had only vague memories of how he had ended up where he was. A horrible headache pained him and his back hurt from sleeping in the alley. He was cold, tired and very thirsty. The only comfort was that at least he was not sick. Nothing stirred in his mind except for the thought of how horrible he felt, and he spent a good ten minutes just staring in front of him – people now took him for a madman.

Eventually, he made it to his feet. He slowly wandered off further into the alley, still covering himself with the sacks against the morning cold. He coughed. He would be lucky if he did not catch pneumonia after this. He aimlessly followed the alley until it joined a wider street. He stepped out on the street and looked around in confusion. He soon figured in which direction the great marketplace could be found, and headed that way. His way of walking was different as well. Only yesterday, people would have stepped out of the way before him and he could have walked down the street with his eyes closed without risking colliding with anyone. Had he fallen, people would have helped him up and perhaps even called for a doctor, no matter how minor the fall was. Today, however, his steps were short and careful. He leaped out of the way of the most unimportant people and blushingly apologized after running into a young girl dressed in old, worn out clothes. In his eyes could be seen horror and whenever he looked at other people he became afraid of them: their stern eyes and cold laughter filled him with fear, and the pointing of the children embarrassed him greatly. The thought of being recognized never occurred to him; he was utterly crushed and destroyed. Frederick von Dönhoff was no more.

He eventually reached the marketplace, which was only beginning to wake up, and only a handful of salesmen had already opened their stalls and the constant shouting and haggling had not yet begun. He carefully and discretely walked over to the well in the middle of the square, where he had a drink. He then sat down on the ground with his back leaned against the well. In his filthy clothes and with his hair in a mess he looked like a beggar. Only now did the thoughts come to him.

“I am nothing”, he thought and a sense of self-betrayal came upon him. Was this is destiny? Had all his entire life, a life of luxury and splendour, been leading up to this? Yes, he had been fooling himself. This was what he was meant to be. Had God wanted him to inherit his father, his father would have lived long enough to disprivilege his older brother, but since that was not the case, Frederick was apparently meant to live in the gutter. A short burst of his old self then came over him: “Never!”, he thought, “None and nothing shall prevent me from achieving my righteous title!”. He actually stood up and shook his fist against the sky, but quickly realised what he was doing and sat down again. He crossed himself, but did not pray, he did not have the strength to. “No, no, no… it is hopeless”.

He would not return home, he had decided on that much. Exactly what his lot in life would be he could not say, but he would never go home to live as an assistant – and in the shade of – his brother. Never. No, he would never be a merchant. “A beggar I will become”, he thought and grinned ironically at himself where he sat. “Look at me! A beggar already! Yesterday I was a prince! And now… now I am nothing, and I have nothing. I am nothing”.

“But surely I must be something”, he then argued. “I am an intelligent young man, surely the Lord has better use for me than being a drunkard”. “No”, he replied to himself. “I must not fool myself with such thoughts. No…”

These confused and irrational debates continued inside his head for hours, until he finally realised that it was already mid-day and that he had not eaten for almost a day. He began looking around the marketplace, which was now fully awake and crowded with activity, searching for a salesman that sold something eatable. It was then that he noticed an interesting tent…

[mrdun]

Read half this first one, very nice. *mental note: must come back to finish it*.

[Innocentius]

Thanks, mrdun!

More is coming... soon. I usually only write spontanteously and don't plan anything in advance, but I've at least come up with the plot for the remaining parts of the first act.

[Innocentius]

Act I, Part III

It was noon, but Götz von Berlichingen was still enjoying his breakfast together with the other reiters. The inn where they quartered was a big four storey stone building with only some hovels in the backyard built out of wood. Its facade was elaborately decorated and a colourful sign over the inn's entrance announced its name, whatever it was, Götz never paid any attention to it - it was The Golden Something anyway. The interior of the inn was somewhat less lavishly decorated but fancy enough for a prince nonetheless and with the most comfortable beds Götz had ever slept in. The Golden Something had a reputation as the finest inn in Stuttgart, and it probably was. The other guests were fine people from all across the Empire and their Oberst, Maximilian von Jungen, had personally seen to that they were quartered there and had paid for the expenditure himself.

The room where they ate all their meals was a small room on the first floor in the eastern wing, somewhat isolated from the rest of the inn by a short and narrow corridor. The furniture in the room consisted of only one big, simple table that still was nicely polished, and a few three-legged stools. The walls had once been white but had not been repainted for years and revealed the grey stone through several cracks in the plastering. Only one small window with heavy wooden shutters let a little light into the room, and even during daytime they were forced to lit a candle to see properly. Again, it was their Oberst who had seen to that they had all their meals and meetings in this room, so that they would not be disturbed by the activities of the other guests.

They were eighteen men who stayed at the inn and they were indeed a motley crew. Götz and Adler were the youngest by far, both of them had yet to reach the age of twenty, and the others were everything from men in their prime years to old men. Albrecht, who was the oldest of them all, was already in his sixties although he never revealed his exact age. He had fought in the Burgundian Wars, and in nearly every war that had been fought for the past forty years for that matter. He had fought both with and against the French, the Turks, the Polish, the Italians and the Swiss, yet he was still healthy and vigorous like a young man. There was little about war and warfare that he did not know. The other men jokingly said he was old enough to have fought at Agincourt, to which he only replied by frowning and shaking his head. A bitter man he was, but invaluable to others due to his experience.

Their Oberst, Maximilian von Jungen was the third son of some nobleman from Saxony and had taken up the profession as Landsknecht long ago. He was in his early forties, had a great red beard, an equally big and red nose and a roaring laughter. He did not go well together with the traditional image of a rough and brutal Landsknecht, and would probably fit better as an innkeeper or as that permanently drunk but friendly frequenter at the tavern. Indeed, he enjoyed beer and good food and preferred a comfortable lifestyle over the rough life as a soldier, but those of the men who had seen him in combat could testify that he could be as violent and frightening in combat as he was friendly and down to earth otherwise. Of all the men in the company he was the only one to be married, but he had left his wife at home at his estate in Saxony this time, rather than taking her with him as he usually did. They had three children together, of which he always spoke and even bragged about.

"How many men do you suppose we will hire here, Sire?" asked Bonifaz, a rotund fellow with a big, brown beard, as he took a brief pause from his sausages.

"Oh, plenty of them" Maximilian replied in his friendly tone. He took a zip of his beer and continued: "If the lieutenants do their job on the countryside, I reckon we should be able to count somewhere in the lines of eight hundred or even a thousand new pikes to our ranks before we leave."

"We are going to give those Swiss Hell, are we not, Sire?" said Götz in a confident tone, smiling at the thought of what lay ahead of them. Maximilian laughed.

"Eager, are you, young Berlichingen? Do not worry, you will have plenty of chances to prove your bravery... not that we doubt it anyway!" He smiled.

Everything went silent for a moment, and the men focused on eating rather than thinking and talking. After a while, when he had finished yet another pint, Maximilian turned to Adler and asked him to play them something. Adler was a rather talented flutist, and the only one in the company who had any musical talent whatsoever. "Yes, play Palästinalied!" Bonfiaz shouted with his mouth full of bread. Adler, who never said no to an opportunity to demonstrate his talent picked out his flute from his knapsack. Being among the youngest and lacking the courage and fiery spirit of Götz, he was eager to prove his worth in whatever he ways he could. He looked up to the older men and Albrecht in particular, hoping to one day become as hardy as them. The men continued their morning feast to the tones of Adler's flute. They were unaware that they were being watched.

Through the keyhole in the small wooden door an elderly man was watching the company. He was dressed in a long, grey robe like a monk, but wore his thinning hair long and uncut and the golden rings on all his fingers signalled that he was indeed no friar. What was remarkable about the old man apart from his odd clothes were two things: first of all, he was extremely tall, he stood nearly seven feet high and had to crouch to not hit his head in the ceiling; secondly, no one had seen him come or go. The innkeeper had been given specific orders by Maximilian von Jungen not to let anybody into the room where the reiters ate - no, not even into the little corridor! Surely, the innkeeper or one of the maids would have spotted this curiously dressed giant, but he had slipped by undetected. The old man chuckled for himself as he watched the soldiers eat, unaware of what he had in store for them, and wrote something down on a piece of parchment - how he did this without a pen was a mystery. He then left without anyone paying even the slightest attention to him as casually strolled through the inn, stopping at one occasion to grab a piece of freshly baked bread from a basket.

Meanwhile, Mester Filbert, innkeeper at the Stout Destrier, wondered where the company of jesters who had stayed over night at the inn had gone, and how they had been able to leave so silently that none had noticed it. He also wondered where the hundred foreign gold coins in his drawstring purse had come from, and if he would have to pay tax on them.

[Innocentius]

Act I, Part IV

"You? A Landsknecht?!" the enlister laughed Frederick right in the face seeing his scruffy appearance. "Ha! Go home, ragamuffin!"

"No, no, you do not understand!" Frederick said desperately. "My name is Frederick von Dönhoff... I can easily provide whatever expenditures you demand of me... or, I mean, that you demand of new recruits". The enlister had stopped laughing and was now scrutinizing him. The boy certainly had fine clothes, but they were all filthy and even thrashed. He did not really look like a street urchin – besides, he was a little too old for an urchin – but he did not look like a nobleman either. He had heard of the von Dönhoff family yesterday; the news of the death of Albrecht von Dönhoff had reached everyone in Stuttgart, and it was very much possible that that was how the young, scruffy, man had heard of the name.

"von Dönhoff?" he asked. Frederick nodded. "You lie".

"I am no liar!" Frederick exclaimed. "Please, just write my name down and I will return in an hour, dressed according to my status. I shall bring the money needed for my equipment… clothes, armour, whatever it now is… just to prove to you that I am not lying. By God! I swear I am not lying!"

"If you are willing to swear on the name of the Lord, I can do nothing but pray for your immortal soul that you are not lying" the enlister said after a brief pause. "I heard that Albrecht von Dönhoff passed away just yesterday, may he rest in peace, and it would be most insensitive of you to act as the relative of such a prominent figure who so recently, and tragically, passed on…” he stopped as he noticed tears in the boy’s eyes. Perhaps he was speaking the truth? Or maybe he was just a good actor? “Alright. I shall write your name down in here, but if you do not return within an hour as you said... then may God have mercy on your soul".

Frederick did not answer, but left the enlistment tent and headed home. Oh God, what had he gotten into? How could he go home looking like this? What if his mother was at home? What would he say? Questions rained upon him like rocks falling from the sky, but he had answers to none of them. They pained him, and he could not evade them as they hammered inside his head. He now felt the looks of the people around him, and realised he was mumbling to himself. He stopped doing so and gave the people staring at him an angry look in return. They must have thought he was a madman! Moreover, he still had not eaten, and his stomach ached. He was unused to hunger.

He walked as if in a fever, not looking ahead of him and instead staring at the ground. Hunger, headache and the endless storm of questions raging inside him distracted him from his little private task, and he soon lost track of time and place as he wandered around, and suddenly found himself outside that place. A shiver went down his spine. He left. Now determined to head straight home and do as he had promised the enlister, he made a vain attempt to clear his mind, but still managed to stay alert enough to find his way to the von Dönhoff residence. Once there, he sneaked in using the backdoor; nobody saw him and nobody tried to stop him.

Inside, everything was silent. Carefully, he peaked around each corner before he rounded it and walked up the stairs as silently as he could. Judging from the silence, none was at home, which suited him just right. Where everyone might have gone a day like this he could not tell. He did not really care anyway, the important thing was that they were away, someplace where they could not bother him. He was in no state to speak to anyone. The final stairs leading up to his chamber squeaked and he stopped dead to listen if anyone had noticed, but he heard nothing. He sighed and continued up the stairs, rushed into his chamber and locked the door behind him. He leaned his forehead against the smooth wooden door for a little while, just inhaling and exhaling, before he turned to face his room. To his great surprise, a man was sitting in his armchair.

“Who are you?!” yelled Frederick in shock. Being polite never occurred to him.

The man was elegantly dressed in red and green clothes of the latest fashion – he was apparently a very wealthy man since his clothes were of the finest fabric, decorated with golden thread and red jewels; he wore golden rings on all his fingers. The man wore a large and stylish black chaperon, almost the size of his own head. Adding to his elegant looks, he was clean shaven and whatever hair he had was covered by his bourrelet. He was good looking, somewhere in his late twenties, and had an unusually symmetrical appearance, but for some reason he seemed concerned and stared at the floor, not even bothering to look at Frederick.

“I am… I was, a very good friend of your father” said the man in a melodic, almost enchanting, voice. “I was with him when he died”.

“Who are you?” repeated Frederick, this time in a much lower and calmer voice. “I know my father’s friends very well, and I do not recall ever seeing you before. What is your name?”

“Never before?” the man asked in return, avoiding Frederick’s question. “But I have been by your side since the day you were born. You were always such a stubborn little child, Frederick, even your father would testify to that. You would have made a great merchant, just like your father was. You are good with numbers, that and being stubborn, never backing for anyone or anything, would have made you very successful. Just like a real Genoese merchant! Hmm… shame it will not turn out that way”.

“What?!” Frederick shouted, now not only confused but also upset and even a little bit frightened. “You are a stranger to me, but claim that you have known me all my life! Who are you? What are you doing here and why have you come here now? Who… who let you in?” Frederick approached the man, but he still would not look at Frederick.

“Pah!” he said. “Pointless, futile, questions, Frederick! You should know better” he made a pause as if listening to something. “I will go now, he said, your mother is home. She must not see me. Remember me, Frederick. Soon enough, you will recall who I am, and then you will realise just of how much help I have been to you, as you will be to me. But for now: farewell” with that, the stranger stood up and gave Frederick a quick glance. To Frederick’s surprise, the man had distinctly yellow eyes, but he was given no time to contemplate over that odd feature, for the man hurried to the door, left the room and slammed the door behind him. Seconds later, Frederick could hear footsteps in the squeaking stairs, but they were from someone coming up the stairs. The very next second, before he had even had time to fully appreciate what had just happened, his mother entered the room. She paused and stared at him for a moment.

“My boy!” she cried and rushed over to Frederick, embracing him. She kissed him over and over again and as she looked at his face, he noticed that her eyes were still filled with tears. She was all dressed in black. “My little boy” she said, “where have you been? What have you done, my little Frederick? You are all filthy and seem ill, are you having a fever, son?”

“No… no, I am not well” Frederick replied in a low voice, turning his eyes away from the sorrow-ridden face of his mother. “I have been… I have been drinking, I slept in the gutter”. He could not get himself to lie to his own mother; the humiliating truth was better. He blushed.

“Oh, my poor boy! Why would you do that?”

“I do not know. I am not feeling very well… I am so confused, mother”.

“You are not alone” and she kissed him again and hugged him, rocking him gently as if he was but a little child. “I have sent words to your brother to return home immediately” she whispered to him. “We expect him in only a few weeks. We must pray he can make to the funeral. Oh, Frederick, this all happened so suddenly!”

At the mentioning of his brother, Frederick was overwhelmed by a sudden rage, and he broke loose from his mother’s arms and took a few steps away from her. He turned his back to her, but then turned to face her again, his eyes filled with both contempt and tears.

“I am leaving, mother” he said in a cold voice with a slight hint of mockery.

“W-what?”

“I am leaving… leaving Stuttgart. You, our home, everything. I am leaving. I am going to enlist as a Landsknecht… there is much money to make in such a living. They say there will be war in Switzerland”.

”But…”

”No, mother, I have made up my mind. Do not try to stop me, I must do this. I must”.

“But, Frederick! You… Do you not remember? Your cousin, Waldemar in Lübeck…” his mother began, but he interrupted her:

”Yes, yes, yes! I know he enlisted and died while in Sweden, I know! I have no intention to follow his example, mother. Do not worry, I will not die, but I must do this. I must go away. I have decided to this, now, please, leave me! I am in a hurry”.

“My boy!” But Frederick grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She made no further attempts to stop him and ran down the stairs crying. As soon as he could no longer hear her, Frederick too began to cry, and he collapsed where he stood on the floor, burying his face in his hands. An overwhelming pain soared through his body, it was as if his sorrow manifested itself in physical pain. “What have I done? My own mother!” he thought. Paralysed by sorrow, unable to move, unaware of everything but his own misery, he remained where he was for almost half an hour. But then, as if by command he gathered himself together, stood up, washed his face in the bowl of water he always kept in the alcove and changed into better clothes. As he looked at himself in the mirror, a glimpse of his old, oh so confident, self looked back at him. But the utterly confused and devastated Frederick was not revitalized by the mere fact that despite all that had happened, he still looked good. Such mattered little in his position. He had gone too far already, and where he was heading, no good looks and fine clothes would help him. He took a purse filled with silver coins with him as he left, not bothering to close the door behind him: he was not going to return. He snuck out the backdoor and left unnoticed.

***

For Götz von Berlichingen, the day had been a fine day. After their steady breakfast, they had gone down to the marketplace and supervised the enlisting of men; they were all glad to see that so many had turned up, desiring some adventure, glory and of course money. Of course, most were turned down, only the fittest and wealthiest could become soldiers in the Fähnleins of Maximilian von Jungen. Some men interested them in particular, for various reasons. One was so short and skinny that they laughed at him even before he announced his name (he was of a very fine and wealthy family) and they turned him down, joking about is unimpressive stature. Another man, who came to them early in the afternoon, was so obese and seemed so nervous that they though he was only joking with them, and another turned up dead drunk and made suspicious comments on the good looks of Götz, so that they suspected him of being a sodomite. They, along with many others, were all refused – some were so upset by this that they had to be carried away (after Götz lost his temper and hit them).

Others were of more interest to them, though, and among these was the man who, according to the scribe, had turned up earlier in the day dressed like a ragamuffin and obviously hung over. As he reappeared, now dressed “according to his status”, just as he had promised, and in seemingly good health, they accepted him into their ranks, even though he seemed a bit odd. And so it was that Frederick von Dönhoff enlisted in the same Fähnlein as Götz von Berlichingen…

Ah, my friends! Time goes by, and we have already reached the end of the first act. I must say, no, rather confess, that by this time, I was not entirely satisfied with the turn of events, and all had not turned out as I had planned it, but you cannot always succeed I suppose, and besides, everything turned out just as I wanted in the end… but let us not get ahead of things! At least, my opponent, of whom I will not speak more right now, had not yet intervened in my plans – which I find to be interesting since he was certainly aware of what I was planning all along.

Nonetheless, all things must end, and so does the first act in my little play…

[Innocentius]

Act II, Part I

Feldkirch, Swiss-Imperial border, February 1499

Frederick had felt like such a man back when he had just bought himself his equipment. The fine clothes in his family colours, green and blue, the shining breastplate, the skull cap worn underneath fashionable black hat, the long pike and the elaborately decorated katzbalger; they had all come at the painstaking cost of fourteen guilders, but it had been worth it. He had never been so proud as when he walked through the wooden gate, which the enlisters referred to as a portal, at the mustering area; the very second he knew that he was now an Imperial Landsknecht, all his troubles were gone. Whatever memories had recently pained him and whatever bitter taste was yet in his mouth – all gone. Despite the bitterly cold autumn day, the sun had shone as it did in the summertime, and the four guilders he collected from the pfenningmeister, his first pay, were the most precious silver coins he had ever taken into his hands. They were probably the only silver coins he had earned justly, but such had not bothered him that day, nor would he ever have admitted such a thing. Although the feldobrist, Count Heinrich von Fürstenburg, had explicitly pointed out that "the sins of gambling and drinking are to be kept within reasonable limits" as he read the articles of war to the men, relentless drinking and gambling had spread like a plague through the camp nonetheless that cold November night.

And then months of hell commenced. Marching, exercise, drill and combat training - all in freezing cold. In storms and in blizzards they repeated the tiring pike drill, in the bitter winter nights they were taught how to march as one, how no gaps were to be left in the deadly pike square, and in the fresh snow, mixed up with mud until it acquired a greyish colour, they were taught the horrors of bad war. The sound of the drummers and fifers still echoed in his ears as he went to bed, and rest assured they called him out of his sleep every morning at dawn, so that he may assemble with the other men at the general gathering, hear what news the officers brought them and receive the blessing of the priest. Not even now was their training over, but the garrison at Gutenburg castle had called for aid, as a force of Uri men had crossed the Rhine and sacked the village of Mels. Therefore they had been called into a somewhat "premature" service, as Frederick had overheard a rather drunk gemeinweibel say to his colleague the other night. And now they were finally getting ready for what the men had been waiting for the last four months: war.

There were two regiments who would now enter Swiss territory, totalling a force of ten thousand men. Such a figure was hard to imagine, let alone fully grasp. Frederick's fähnlein consisted out of mostly inexperienced young men, or boys, like him. Apart from two of the soldiers, the only men with previous fighting experience in the fählein were the officers, and months of rough training had taught Frederick whom to avoid and whom to stay close to, or, if possible, befriend.

The veterans of the fähnlein were Paul Dolnstein and his comrade Wilhelm von Strasbourg. They had both served together in Holland eight years ago, and had moved from employment to employment, whether as landsknechts or as something else – Dolnstein was a bridge builder by trade and von Strasbourg had quite a family heritage to support him – and had ended up yet again in Imperial service after being unemployed for six months. They were merry fellows, and Wilhelm had made himself a name within the regiment already thanks to his good singing voice. Paul on the other hand had the odd habit of writing and drawing down everything he saw or heard. Together they formed quite a pair, appearing to be artists who had ended up in the war by chance, although they had of course sought it themselves in the first place. Money, wine and women were all that mattered to them, and warfare was an excellent, if dangerous, way to make oneself an (additional) fortune.

Less merry were the provost and the wachtmeister, who apparently felt a strong distain for the common men and thus stuck to the other officers. Least merry of them all was the one eyed executioner, Fulco, shunned by soldiers and officers alike, and not because of his alcohol-stinking breath.

Their captain, Franz Bauer, long ago the son of a wealthy merchant, despite his humble surname, was an elderly fellow – too old for war – with a clear grasp of right and wrong. It was only with great reluctance that he allowed “the sins of drinking and gambling” to at all exist in his fähnlein, and one would be wise not to use the name of the Lord lightly when he was within hearing distance, although thankfully he had gone increasingly deaf lately. His long, white beard gave him a sage-like appearance, and there were few, if any, who did not rightfully fear him. Second in command was their more popular feldweibel, Ludwig von Erlichshausen, a short man in his thirties with an impressive, waxed, moustache. Of all the men, he was clearly the most elegantly dressed, and his clothes were slashed according to the latest fashion. His unimpressive stature he compensated for with great bravery, as the other officers who had fought at his side before could testify to, and a great heart. He was of a friendly nature, and acted fatherly towards the men, despite being just a few years older than some of them, and despite being a head shorter than all of them. His two gemeinweibels were friends of his, although they were less keen on the younger soldiers, and did not hesitate to tell gruesome tales of what they had experienced to scare the naïve boys who flocked around them. One of them had nearly given Frederick a beating earlier on as he had gone increasingly frustrated with Frederick’s repeated failures at a certain movement within the pike square.

The ensign, Reginhard Guldenmund, however, was by far the most awed by the new recruits. He was a man in his early forties with a few grey straws in his great, blonde beard, and measuring nearly seven feet, he was the tallest man in the entire regiment. Armed with the zweihänder of the doppelsöldner and clad in full armour, he belittled, no dwarfed, the other men. He was of quiet nature however, and only rumours existed of the various, almost miraculous, feats ascribed to him. Naturally, it was the dream of every young soldier in the fähnlein to win his favour, and those who fought as doppelsöldner often bragged over how well they knew him, occasionally even claiming that he had complimented them during the fencing practices.

But of course, no matter how well Frederick knew these men by name, appearance and rumour, he was, just like most of the other soldiers, restricted to a close circle of comrades, consisting of ordinary young men like him. They gathered now for the last time at one of the few inns in the little town. They all did their best to spend their entire pay for January as from now on there were no guarantees whether their pay would arrive on time or not. A joyous feast it was, and the inn was crowded. The fog of war was apparently already upon them, as it was difficult to see the man at the other end of the table through the smoke and dim light.

A young man, not a landsknecht, but definitely an adventurous lad who would tag along once the army got marching stood on a table and, to the great amusement of the soldiers, imitated a Swiss cow farmer, followed by a shepherd. With astonishing resemblance he imitated the sounds of all the animals on the farm, and in a one-man act he showed how an old Swiss farmer worked on the farm, all the while complaining over his old knees, occasionally farting (which the young man imitated with such realism that the men who sat at the table flinched to avoid the smell). For the finale it was revealed that the pigs on the farm were the Swiss themselves. His act was greeted with roaring laughter, even though many in the audience were much too drunk to get the joke. The performer was offered a beer, and singing broke out, with lyrics again mocking the Swiss.

By this time I grew tired of the rather barbarous environment and left the shabby little inn to get some fresh air. I left Frederick inside, letting him have his fun. It was a clear, cold night and the stars were in the plenty. This was just before all my troubles began, and I had been idling for a couple of months, as I figured I needed not intervene for a fair while. As soon as I got him on the right track, I believed things would run themselves thereafter, with me only interfering should an unexpected, yet in the long run insignificant, hindrance appear. I was wrong, but blissfully unaware at the time – just like Frederick was.

[Innocentius]

About six months later...

I felt like writing in English for a change, and I figured this story was at least worth continuing. If anyone remembers it, that's great, if not, I hopefully introduced someone to it. I believe the main reason why I quite writing on it was the lack of comments; go with CC level 5 or whatever, just let me know if you've at all read it!