Stories thread - King of the Romans PBM

[econ21]

Dijon, 1142

The tall man smiled and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately:

“Here, boy, take this coin and fetch your mother. Then go get yourself something nice from the bakery.”

The man saw the ragged boy’s eyes widen at the sight of the gold and watched as the six year old ran off. Nasty rat faced little creature, the man thought. Shortly a plain young peasant woman arrived, fussing with her hair and straightening her crude clothing. The man leapt up eagerly and rushed towards her, embracing her passionately. The woman recoiled, but with only feigned reluctance:

“Stop! What are you doing? Anyone could see us!”

The man smiled rakishly, unconcerned: “Not being seen is a speciality of mine.”

They embraced again, longer this time. The man lavished attention on her, solicited her views, charmed her with his anecdotes and plied her with gifts from his bag. Then, when he felt he could endure the distasteful intimacy no longer, he stepped back coolly and produced one final item from his bag:

“You remember what we talked about before? Here it is.”

It was a small vial. The young peasant woman’s flush face started to whiten and she tensed:

“Is it…? Will it harm the master?”

The man laughed: “Of course not! What do you think I am? As I said before, it is a sleeping draught. He’ll merely retire a little earlier and rest a little longer. Probably do him some good, I reckon. Spends too much time gallivanting around, doing his duty, for Duke and Kaiser. He should take it easy, enjoy life … like us”

He embraced her again and her body began to soften. He whispered in her ear:

“I only want to borrow a few things, for us. He has more than he needs. Your dowry, well, it’s not quite what my father expected me to win.”

The young woman looked awkward and pulled back. The man comforted her, then placed the vial into her hand and coaxed:

“Put it in his wine tonight. Do you think you can do that?”

She looked down and nodded.

“Then, when he retires to his room, let me in through the kitchen. I’ve arranged some entertainment for the guards; they won’t be there. And I’ll be dressed as one of them. The domestic staff won’t question a man in good armour.”

She pursed her lips and nodded again. The man beamed affectionately and pulled her towards him. Her head on his chest, the peasant woman could not see the man wrinkling his nose at her smell, as his hands moved gently over her young body.

* * * * *

It was late when the tall man entered the kitchen of the manor. As he anticipated, the staff glanced at his fine German armour and long expensive cloak then anxiously turned away. Unlike that stupid peasant woman, they knew their place, he thought. She was there – watching him from a corner, wide eyed and terrified. He winked at her and she too turned away. He was grateful to put her out of his mind. He had to focus.

Sigismund had walked into the trap, the man thought. The Germans had believed the French to be fools trying to besiege Dijon with only a regiment of knights. Who were the fools now? Mandorf had diverted the new “Swabian Household Army” to Dijon, leaving the road to Bern almost open for the real French offensive. And with the Swabian Army, Mandorf had delivered Sigismund to Dijon and the tall man waiting for him there.

The man made his way quietly through the manor, evading the remaining staff and the rest of Sigismund’s entourage. Fortunately, Sigimund was a loner – he had attracted no retinue, no harridans like Mandorf , no veterans like Heinrich, Dietrich and Leopold. Unlike his patron, Prinz Henry, “Saint” Sigismund did not even have a stupid mutt to guard his quarters. He was married, but thankfully had not brought his family on campaign. And such was his virtue, it was unlikely there would be another sharing his bed this evening.

The man quietly opened the door to Sigismund’s bedroom chamber. The Count was slumped over his desk, almost as if in humble prayer. Moonlight shone through a large window, bathing the blonde Count in a gentle light. The tall man closed the door and approached the desk gingerly. He stood behind the Count and listened, hearing the faint sound of Sigismund breathing. The assassin frowned, then produced from his belt a long piece of wire. Gingerly, he slipped the wire under Sigismund’s neck. As the assassin carefully drew up the wire noose, the cold metal touched Sigismund’s warm skin. The Count stirred and in response, the tall assassin yanked the noose tight.

Sigismund started: the wire cut into his neck and he was struggling to breathe. The violence of the attack shocked Sigismund into consciousness. His mind was still swimming, oxygen deprivation now combining with the doctored drink to blur his vision and senses. But even in his stupor, Sigismund realised he was in mortal peril. He summoned his great strength and rose from his seat, dragging the assassin across his back and round, away from the desk. Sigismund’s fingers tore at the wire and his assailant’s mailed grip but flesh was of no avail against cold metal. The assassin tightened the noose yet further and Sigismund sank to the floor.

The movement eased the pressure on the Count for a second and, in a brief moment of clarity, Sigismund’s right hand moved quickly to his belt. The tall assassin steadied himself, then began to press his attack: watching triumphantly as Sigismund’s left hand flailed hopelessly and the noose gauged deeper into the Count’s neck. Sigismund arched his kneeling body further forward, again dragging the assassin closer to his back. Then suddenly the assassin felt excruciating pain. Sigismund had managed to retrieve his dagger from his belt and slammed it backwards into the assassin’s upper thigh. The blade had pierced the mesh armour protecting the region. The assassin collapsed on the floor, doubled over in pain.

Slowly, unsteadily, Sigismund rose and straightened up. He looked at the tall man bent over, bleeding on the floor. Roles reversed, now Sigismund staggered behind the helpless form on the floor. Exhausted, he grabbed the tall man’s hair and thrust back his head, preparing to draw his dagger across the exposed throat. But as Sigismund raised his knife, he felt his heart constrict. He struggled for breath and looked helplessly at his own knifehand, outstretched but motionless. Out of the corner of his eye, the wounded assassin watched the dying Count stagger and then fall. The assassin gasped and began to rise. He cursed in his pain: that dose should have killed an elephant by now! He was only supposed to make sure the deed was done – not fight the German brute hand to hand. The assassin watched Sigismund lie motionless on the floor beside him. The tall man summoned his remaining strength: he had to make sure the job was done and get out.

Outside a cloud covered the moon, drawing a veil over the Sigismund’s bed chamber.

* * * * *

When Captain Adolf arrived at Sigismund’s manor, he found the servants and guards milling around in confusion and disbelief. He shook his head - he would bring order to this chaos. Yet for moment, the Captain stood detached from those around him, taking in every detail. His eyes settled on one serving girl visibly more distressed than the rest, sobbing uncontrollably and surrounded by other kitchen staff trying to comfort her.

A Sergeant saw the Captain and marched purposefully towards him, grim-faced and ready to report. The Captain stayed his approach and pointed out the hysterical serving girl, querying:

“Sigismund was not one to stray, so why is she taking this so hard?”

The serving girl - a plain, young peasant woman - glanced up at the two men-at-arms watching her and immediately looked down. The Captain’s tone became harsher and started to step towards her: “I’ll find out what she knows.”

The Sergeant nodded, but touched the Captain’s arm to make him pause and then pointed to the kitchen floor. A small deep red stain was faintly visible under the torchlight; more stains led across the floor towards the door. The Captain’s face hardened:

“Our general did not go down without a fight. I do believe he has given us a trail. Call out the bloodhounds and wake the camp. I want the entire Army out into the countryside searching for this fiend. We’ve wounded our prey; let’s hunt him down.”

The Sergeant nodded and left, as the Captain approached the cowering young peasant woman.